Things Past
by Eloise
Summary: Things that are past, it is needless to blame.' Sleep Tight AU - Wes, Angel and Connor, and the problem with prophecies... Chap 9 added - STORY COMPLETE
1. In the Angel's Keeping

TITLE:  Things Past

AUTHOR:  Eloise 

RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Much.

NOTES: Chap 1 of 8 (possibly 9!) Here we go again – set 'Sleep Tight' AU. The idea behind this story has been in my mind for a couple of years, but the plot hit me like a ton of bricks after I finished the Christmas fic. The story is set in the same universe as 'The Very Best Time of the Year', but you don't need to read it to follow this story. The prologue (in the present tense) is set in the future, and is deliberately obtuse. All will be explained… 

Title quote from Confucius – 'Analects'. Chapter Title and Quote from Helen Hunt Jackson – 'At Last'  

_'Things that are done, it is needless to speak about… Things that are past, it is needless to blame.'_

**Prologue – In the Angels' Keeping**

_'All lost things are in the angels' keeping,_

_No past is dead for us, but only sleeping.'_

**(After)**

It is late afternoon, the warm haze of early summer hanging over the garden. Above, a sky as blue as the ocean, soft billowing clouds float there, the passage of time marked only by their gentle shift, and the almost imperceptible movement of the sun to the west. 

Below, the garden is peaceful, as was intended, the more delicate shrubs and flowers protected by the shade of cypress trees. The soft lazy sunshine trickles through the dappling leaves like liquid light, marking the grass, lengthening shadows on stone. 

He stands, fists shoved deep into his jeans pockets, head bent, as if in prayer. Dark hair flops over his eyes, his fringe in need of a trim. He is small for his seventeen years, a thin delicate form that belies an inner strength. He slips his hands out of his pockets, smoothes them down the worn denim nervously. The bulky leather strap of his watch seems too large for his thin wrist. 

He closes his eyes briefly, long lashes flickering against cheekbones so high as to seem almost feminine. But his frame is all boy, all elbows and knees; awkward angles and sharp corners. His shoulder blades are visible under the soft blue cotton of his shirt, the sleeves rolled casually to expose his forearms.

He shifts, drops to his knees carefully, leaning forward to brush his fingertips over the smooth stone. Tracing the letters there, as if they were Braille, as if he were blind, and needed to touch to comprehend. He closes his eyes again, and his shoulders droop a little, but his eyes remain dry.

Behind him, the older man stands, watching. The setting sun sparks the silver strands in his dark hair, lights fine lines at his eyes, the curve at the edge of his mouth, where time has cut a groove into his cheek. It casts his shadow across the boy's back. He moves forward, kneeling next to him; places his hand tenderly on the boy's shoulder. 

The boy lifts his fingers from the stone, again smoothes his palm along the fabric of his jeans, pausing to pick at a non-existent thread. The older man waits, familiar with this ritual, his hand gentle upon the slender shoulder. Neither demanding attention, nor denying it. If the boy needs him, he is there. 

'It's okay, Connor. Take all the time you need.'

*~*~*~*

**Chapter 1:  Lost Things**

She signed the bottom of the document with her favourite fountain pen, then blotted it carefully. The laptop lay unopened on her desk; she much preferred a handwritten account of her work. It would be typed up later by one of the minions, in triplicate, no doubt, but she always felt a certain smug twinge of satisfaction, seeing such perfectly crafted script on her paperwork.

She had been so busy getting ready for the wedding; she had let the paperwork slide a little. She cast a rather resigned glance at the hideous teal blue bridesmaid dress which hung on the back of her office door. Trust Anyanka to make sure she would not be outshone on her big day. She fluffed her fingers through her tangled curls, then adjusted her locket slightly.

She shuffled the pages together, slipped them into a leather binder. That last wish had been - well, interesting, to say the least. Seeing William again, for one thing. And that poor little key, she had been so lost, so very lonely, and not one of them had noticed.

She could feel the justified anger boil up again, and the dark blue stone within the pendant shimmered a little. She took a breath, made a mental note to herself not to get so emotionally invested in her clients.

Unavoidable, of course, considering the line of business she was in. Anyanka had made that snide little comment about daddy issues, and she wasn't far very from the truth. Her own experiences as a human child had certainly influenced her work as a Justice demon. Just as Anyanka's experience with men had affected hers. 

D'Hoffryn was an incredibly subtle manipulator, really. Quiet reminders of the wrongs that had been done to you, whispered memories of hurts inflicted. Sly little insinuations, repeated softly, until you could not longer resist. Yes, her boss was very clever. Very clever and very dangerous. 

She lifted the folder and went to the door, trying to avoid looking directly at the dress. The corridor was empty; not many staff around so late at night. Still, she might as well take the opportunity to take a peek at some of more obscure prophecies. Paperwork was the perfect excuse for prying into Files and Records.

She decided against teleportation and headed down the stairs. She could do with the exercise if she was going to fit into that nightmarish frock tomorrow. One too many lattes recently had taken their toll, there had been considerable strain on the zipper the last time she had tried on the monstrosity. 

She was slightly out of breath when she reached the basement, and leaned for a moment against the door of the filing room. To her shock, it gave way unexpectedly, and she stumbled backwards, bumping into something, and falling rather inelegantly in a tangle of limbs and files, not all of them her own.

'Would you mind getting your foot out of my ear, thank you so very much.' The distinctly tetchy voice appeared to come out of thin air, although when she looked at her foot, it was hovering about six inches above the ground, resting on decidedly solid thin air. She removed it, and began to gather up the sheets of paper now strewn around the floor of the filing room.

'It would appear that your attempt at stealth has failed miserably,' she observed, waiting for the figure to emerge from its enchanted invisibility. 

There was a muttered curse, and gradually a dark head, slightly pointed ears and an elfin face materialized in the semi-gloom. He slipped off what looked like a rainproof parka and laid it to one side. An elf. One of Nick's guys, she assumed, although what he was doing down here was beyond her. All their paperwork was done at Christmas, and would have been filed a couple of months ago.

The elf scowled at her, and began to collect his own papers. He wasn't filing them, she realized now. He was taking them. 

'You're not supposed to remove those from Files and Records, you know,' she said, feeling somewhat pompous. She looked more carefully at the documents he was scooping up and shoving into a file rather hurriedly.

'Hey, these are prophecies!'

He gave her a cold hard look, which didn't completely disguise his obvious fear.

'And you are who? The prophecy police?' His tone lacked the acidic bite that the words demanded. He seemed distracted, kept looking into the corridor beyond her shoulder. Something clicked in her memory.

'Oh, my God. You're him. I heard about you at the office Christmas party! You're the elf that granted the wish. Um, Noam… wasn't it? Or Gordon?'

He eyed her with barely concealed contempt. 'Norman. And yes, I am the elf that granted the wish. For all the good it did the kid,' he muttered under his breath.

'Kid?' She remembered D'Hoffryn waxing lyrical about payback and just desserts, but she had never actually heard the specifics of the wish.

He sighed deeply, and stood up wearily.  'He was on my list. My nice list. And his dad was giving him a really hard time.'

Her heart suddenly seemed to be beating very loudly.

'He wished for a happy Christmas. Seemed simple enough, at the time. How was I to know there were at least two major prophecies involved in the whole fiasco?'

She wasn't really listening to him. 'You helped a lost child. That's my job…'

His gaze, which had been fixed over her shoulder, slid back to her face, angry realization dawning.

'You bloody vengeance demons. Never there when you're really needed.'

'Justice Demon,' she corrected half-heartedly.

'Vengeance, justice… it doesn't change the fact that this was a kid in pain.' He was now incredibly angry. He jabbed his index finger towards her face as he spoke, to emphasize his point.

'See, if you'd been doing your job properly, none of this would have happened. I wouldn't be in the mess that I'm in, and he wouldn't be about to make the biggest mistake of his life.' He shook his head in despairing wonderment. 'Wesley, you idiot, did you not read the card?'

She was now completely bewildered. 'You tried to warn him about the prophecies?'

The elf nodded, hugging the folders to his chest. 

'And your boss, does he know?' 

He nodded again, and she shook her head at his guileless nature. 'The Powers will have erased your warning the minute Nick found out about it. That's the thing about prophecies. They tend to come true, no matter what we do to stop them. Sometimes _because of what we do to stop them.'_

He looked so desperate then, so utterly heartbroken. 

'If they find you with these, you know you're finished, don't you?' Her tone was gentle.

'I'll be made mortal.' Resignation in his voice.

There was a sound in the corridor behind her; Norman's eyes widened in shock, and he pushed past her, clutching the file tightly. 

'I have to go.'

He headed down the corridor, leaving his enchanted raincoat lying on the floor beside her. She heard Nick shout for Norman to stop, then the sound of feet pounding by the door. She slipped behind the door, pulled the invisibility coat over her head and waited. There were sounds of a scuffle, and after a few moments it was clear that Norman had been apprehended.

'Come on, Norman, it's okay.' Nick sounded calm, concerned. 'There's no point in this. You can't change it.'

Norman did not answer. 

'We'll sort this out back in my office. I did warn you about meddling in this. I'm afraid the Powers aren't happy at all.'

She listened as the footsteps retreated towards the stairs. Then breathed a quiet sigh. She wondered what could have been so awful in that prophecy as to make the elf risk his immortality. Then realized that she wasn't likely to find out, as the prophecies were now in the Nick's possession, and not likely to be returned to Files and Records any time in the near future. 

She pulled out a drawer in the Justice cabinet and flicked through the files, looking for the 'Wish Removed' section. She opened the leather binder to make sure her report was complete. 

And there it was. Mixed up with her own papers when they had collided in the doorway, the prophecy which had so disturbed Norman. And now she understood why. The words were chilling in their simplicity.

'The Father will kill the Son'


	2. Bitter Tea

TITLE:  Things Past

AUTHOR:  Eloise 

RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Much.

NOTES: Chap 2 of 8. Thank you for your lovely reviews, it makes the writing even more enjoyable! This chapter is based on 'Sleep Tight' and has lines of dialogue and scenes from this ep and from 'Loyalty'. Goes a bit AU though… 

Big hugs and thanks to Lonely Brit who is just a perfect beta. Chapter title and quote from Wen Yiduo - 'Confession'

_But remember that my food is a pot of bitter tea._

_And there is another 'I'. Will you be afraid to know it?_

_The flylike thought crawling in the garbage can.'_

Chapter 2: Bitter Tea

The lobby seemed deserted. He moved towards the cradle, noticing for the first time a splash of crimson on the wall; its spatter pattern arcing downwards. That was new. He had surveyed most of the earthquake wreckage this morning, and the blood had not been there.

Or maybe it had, and he was just too obsessed with the prophecy to have noticed. He was, in fact, beginning to doubt his own sanity. What he was considering was sheer madness. That Angel would kill his own son, his beloved baby? He adored him, doted on him, for God's sake! There was no way…

And then that other voice, the logical, analytical, cold hard truth voice started in on its closing arguments. Presenting as evidence the prophecy. He had spent several sleepless nights trying to disprove or discredit the statement, yet each time he came back to the same bitter conclusion – 'The Father will kill the Son'.

The Loa had confirmed it. The events of last evening had fulfilled the prediction, as the world had literally crashed in around them. He had almost convinced himself that he was wrong. Until that moment in the hallway, crouching on the floor in stupefied terror, watching as the blood dripped delicately onto the baby's blanket. Had heard his friend utter those terrible words.

_'At least I would have had something to snack on...'_

He stared for a moment at the arc of dried blood peppering the wall.

There had been too much blood recently. The nightmarish vision of Angel nuzzling Connor, then raising a bloody mouth to smile at him; the horror he felt at that was only matched by the realization that he could have prevented it. Connor's blood would be on his hands. 

He moved to the centre of the empty lobby, and was surprised to find the child fussing softly in his cradle. In the back of his mind he knew that this wasn't right, that they wouldn't leave Connor alone, but he had to act now, when the opportunity presented itself. He lifted the child's changing bag and began to stuff it with random soft toys and baby clothes he found on the sofa.

'What are you doing?'

He swung to face an accusatory Lorne, bottle of baby formula in hand. Managed somehow not to gasp out loud. 

'I'm taking Connor.'

No lies there. His mind whirring. He and Angel had talked about this, keeping Connor overnight, the park in the morning… and Lorne was falling for it. Believing him. He felt a strange giddiness, a terrible absurd desire to giggle at the lunacy of his situation. 

The baby gave a small cry, his little legs kicking out in frustration. He bent over the cradle, lifting Connor gently, hushing him with little whispered platitudes, a half-remembered lullaby.

_'How long do I have?_

_('Tick tock, Wes. Running out of time, running out of time…')_

_'One day. After that, everyone gets hurt…'_

Time slowed. 

His heart stopped, then hardened.

He knew. Lorne had read him, and he knew. 

He placed the baby back in the cradle ever so carefully; met Lorne's eyes. He saw uneasiness, changing to disbelief, and then blind terror, as if Lorne had understood his intentions before they had fully formed in his own mind.

And he ran. He brought him down hard, tackling him with fists and feet and utter desperation. Dragging them both over the desk, collapsing in a tangled heap on the floor, adrenaline rushing through his veins. He mustn't be allowed to tell. He swung his fist, connecting with the demon's cheekbone, hard; then repeated the action. And still Lorne struggled wildly beneath him, needing to be silenced. He reached up, fingers closing around a statuette, and he brought it down with frantic brutal force, opening a gash in the green cheek, sending Lorne crashing into oblivion.

And there was no time. Not for regrets, or guilt, or self-loathing. There would be time enough for that later.

_'I imagine it's easier to hate Holtz than yourself'_

_'There's enough to go round for both him and me.'_

He hurried back to the baby, cradling him against his chest as he balanced the changing bag on his shoulder and turned and… 

'Angel.'

Dear God. How could the vampire not hear his heart thump against his ribcage, hammering much too quickly, betraying his terror and his guilt? His _betrayal._ How could he not sense the distaste, disgust; the absolute despair? It was obvious; he was obvious, and the child was lost.

And still he did not give up. He handed the precious bundle to Angel, who kissed his son tenderly, and Wesley could barely meet the other's eyes. 

_'Love can be a terrible thing'_

_'Used to think it would swallow you whole….'_

And then came the others, Fred and Gunn, smiling and laughing and eating; supremely ignorant of the magnitude of the situation. Of which, of course, he had made sure.  And now Angel was talking about some demon, Sahjhann, and could he hit the books before he headed home? 

The thought of researching in his office, over the prone body of the friend he had just beaten unconscious, caused that horribly inappropriate bubble of insane laughter to float in his chest again. He bit down on his lip, and held out his arms to Angel, to kidnap his baby.

For some unfathomable reason, Angel handed him the child, his palm lingering on the tiny dark head, brushing across the little shoulder, a touch so full of tenderness that he had to look away. Could not bear to witness this. Not with his deceptive heart.

'I guess… I'll see you all tomorrow…' he lied.

And suddenly Angel jumped up, called his name. He half-turned back, waited for the accusation, almost welcoming it. But his friend knew nothing, suspected nothing, and Wesley was surprised by the lucidness of his reassurances. He hadn't realized he was such an accomplished liar. He cradled the tiny body protectively against his chest.

'Don't worry.'

_I'll keep him safe, I promise._

*~*~*~*

He made a little nest of cushions on the sofa for Connor, still not too sure if the child could roll over, wriggle off the edge of the seat. It hit him then, the enormity of what he had done. He was now solely responsible for the safety of this infant. Not just the protecting him from prophetic dooms, but from the mundane dangers of everyday life; hot bathwater, fingers in sockets, bumps and scrapes and measles and…

A wave of helpless terror engulfed him. It had been different before, back at the hotel, with Fred and Cordy and Lorne around. He had done his share of babysitting Connor, changed his nappies, fed him his bottle, but he always knew that the others were coming back. It was different now. He was on his own. He had no younger siblings; he was an only child; his own childhood his only experience of parenting. Not the healthiest of examples, he rather supposed.

The baby gurgled contentedly, blissfully unaware of the gravity of his current situation. He stuffed a small fist into his mouth and sucked noisily, but did not seem inclined to actually cry for milk. 

Wesley lifted the suitcase he had packed when he had first translated the prophecy and opened it. A few clothes, his wash bag, crossbow, books, and a small album of photographs. He threw his translation of the prophecy and his notes on top of the album and closed the case again. 

Took out his gun, checked that it was loaded, and clicked the safety. Slipped it into his inner pocket, and patted the jacket lightly, touching the stakes and knives for reassurance. Wallet and passport were there also, though how the hell he would get Connor out of the country was rather beyond him at the moment.

'Well, Connor, I suppose we're ready to go.' 

Tried not to think about the fact that he had no idea where.

The baby perked up at the sound of his voice, and he kicked both legs together, positively bouncing with the anticipation of being picked up. Wesley leant over and scooped the child into his arms, and Connor wriggled himself into a comfortable position, his head snuggled into the hollow between Wesley's shoulder and neck. 

'That's a boy, that's a boy,' he whispered, placing one hand across the tiny back and lifting the suitcase with the other. He stood in the doorway, glanced round the flat for the last time. He would not be coming back. Locked the door behind him and headed for the car.

The locking mechanism chirruped brightly, and he opened the back door, set the suitcase on the floor. Opened the side door, to access the baby seat, and there was a soft moan. He clutched Connor tighter to his chest, turned in the direction of the sound.

It was a black night, the moon obscured by clouds, and he wasn't about to take any chances. He kept his left hand on the baby's back, and drew his gun with the right.

'That's close enough.'

He didn't immediately recognize the figure that limped out of the bushes, hunched over, arms wrapped around its midriff. Then the light from the street lamp threw her battered face into sharp relief.

'Justine?'

Someone had clearly done quite a number on her. The lower half of her jaw was swollen and discoloured, the bruised flesh in varying shades of red, purple and black. From the way she moved, held her arm tight about her stomach, it was possible that ribs had been broken. 

'He's everything you said… it's true.'

He lowered the gun, fractionally, took a tentative step towards her. 

'What happened?'

And now she was telling him, how Holtz had betrayed them all, gone looking for Connor at the hotel. And when she had questioned his tactics… 

He felt slightly queasy. He had known that the man was driven by hatred and revenge, but he had truly believed that at the core, Holtz was basically a good man. That he would beat this young woman so badly as to make her almost unrecognizable was quite disturbing. 

Before he knew it, he had slipped the safety on again, sliding the gun into his pocket. She stumbled towards him, her arm curved into her side protectively.

There was a slight whisper of a breeze in the air, rustling the leaves of the trees in the park opposite. The chill wind shifted the clouds in the dark sky, and she was abruptly lit by moonlight. A sudden flash of silver hidden in her palm raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

He couldn't believe he had almost fallen for it. 

She was too near him now; he would not be able to fire the gun without endangering the baby. He stepped away as she drew the blade from the folds of her jacket, sidestepping her lunge at him. He tightened his grip on Connor, ignoring the small wail of protest from the child, and kicked out with his right leg. The tip of his shoe made sharp connection with her wrist; she let out a tiny gasp, but somehow managed to maintain her hold on the knife. 

A horribly familiar anger flooded him; he slammed his fist into her face, intentionally hitting the already damaged jaw line. She reeled backwards, disoriented, and in one fluid movement he swept his foot under her legs, bringing her crashing to the ground. The knife twitched in her open palm, her fingers curling around the hilt a little. He did not think. Simply brought his heel down on her forearm, shattering the bone.  She made a strange little sound, a hysterical half-sobbing laugh, her fingers slackening.

He bent over, and retrieved the knife from her smashed hand, then straightened again. Calmly, he removed his foot from her arm, then pressed it onto her injured hand, grinding it into the pavement, as if stubbing out a cigarette. 

'Tell Holtz his little plan backfired.' 

She writhed in pain, and he eased his heel up, just a little.

'Tell him that if he comes after me, I'll kill him.' 

She was watching him warily, clearly under the impression that he was completely psychotic. He wondered if that impression wasn't far from the truth.

'Do you understand me, Justine?'  A cold hard voice, one he recognized from his youth.

She seemed to realize that some sort of affirmation was required, managed to nod her acquiescence.

'Good. I won't be seeing you again, then, will I?'

Again she signalled her understanding with a tiny shake of her head. 

He lifted his foot from her hand and strode over to the car. Connor was whimpering in his firm embrace; he placed him carefully in the travel seat, and drew his gun again. She had rolled onto her side, curling her body around her wounded arm. He was fairly sure she no longer posed a threat, but he kept the gun trained on her as he climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. Pulled away from the kerb and drove into the night.

*~*~*~*

He realized he had been driving for an hour with no clear idea of where he was going. He had no plan. All he had thought of was getting Connor away, taking him somewhere safe until he had time to make sense of the prophecy. The getting him away part was complete, that just left the taking him somewhere safe problem. 

He looked around at the baby, snuggled in the safety seat, fast asleep. Oblivious to the drama that was unfolding around him. A car passed on the other side of the freeway, its lights flashing silver in his vision, recalling a moonlit blade. His knuckle throbbed; the skin had split when his fist cracked against her jaw. The image of a twisted limb under his heel sickened him. 

_'It wasn't something in you, Wesley. It was something that was done to you.'_

He had always known that Fred was wrong. There was a darkness inherent in him, a capacity for ruthlessness that he could not deny, no matter how much he wanted to. He hadn't derived any pleasure from the infliction of pain, not the way he had enjoyed hurting Fred, but the knowledge that he was capable of this kind of cold-hearted violence did nothing to improve his sense of growing desolation.

He flexed his fingers against the steering wheel, the skin tightening white around his bruised knuckles. He possessed enough self awareness to acknowledge the source of his concerns, especially in view of the role he had taken upon himself. Glanced in the rear view mirror at the sleeping child, an innocent thrown into chaos because of some prophecy written centuries before his birth. 

The baby snuffled slightly, then relaxed against the cushioned straps, his dark little head drooping to the side.

There were words for what he was doing; kidnapping, abduction; stark horrible truths that took no account of motive. And there would be no understanding; nothing he could say would absolve him of this crime. He thought he had accepted that, could live with the guilt, knowing it was done for the safety of the child, but suddenly he wasn't so sure. What if his actions were in some way fulfilling the prophecy, if his abduction of Connor would somehow result in the child's death at his father's hands?

He was so sick of bloody prophecies. Circles within circles, endless double meanings and possible translations that diverged wildly. And always he was relied upon to figure it out. He was tired of it, tired of being the only one. If he could just talk to someone else, share his fears. 

He gradually became aware of a feeling of déjà vu, as he drove through the strangely familiar countryside. This was a road he had not travelled in almost three years. He had run from his past then, and now he was running from the present, from a terrible future. He was not wholly unaware of the irony of his situation, returning to the scene of one of his most blatant failures, to seek help from those who had rejected him. But he needed time to work on the prophecy, perhaps a fresh perspective, and he knew that the older watcher would agree at least to shelter him.

He glanced at the clock on the dashboard, it was approaching midnight. If he drove steadily, he would be in Sunnydale by morning.


	3. A Thousand Enemies

TITLE:  Things Past

AUTHOR:  Eloise 

RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Much.

NOTES: Chap 3 of 8. Thank you again for your lovely reviews. And for those of you expecting to head to Sunnydale this chapter I apologize. There are a few pieces that have to be moved into position before we get there. 

Big hugs and thanks to Lonely Brit, 'superbeta girl'. Some modified quotes from 'Forgiving' in this chapter. Chapter title from Arabic proverb

_'Better a thousand enemies outside the house, than one within.'_

**Chapter 3: A Thousand Enemies**

Nigel ffoulkes nervously ran his fingers along the edge of the file, then adjusted his immaculate tie automatically. It would not do to appear in front of the upper echelons in a state of even the slightest disarray. 

He had spent an inordinate amount of time preparing himself for this interview; not just on the translation, which he had painstakingly handwritten in copperplate, but on his appearance. Quite a substantial portion of last month's salary had gone on a new suit, and he had polished his glasses until they positively gleamed. This was his chance finally to be noticed, and he wasn't going to muck it up.

He tapped his fingertips absently on the file, and received a withering look from the steel-haired secretary. He mouthed an apology, and set the file on the chair next to him. She dropped her gaze, clearly uninterested in this lowly minion and his reasons for visiting the inner sanctum.

He experienced a vague feeling of self-disgust; God, what hope was there for him if he was intimidated by a bloody secretary? Granted, she had a reputation as bit of a dragon, but still, that was no excuse. He was going to have to show a bit of backbone if he wanted to impress these men.

'Mr. ffoulkes?'

The voice of the formidable dragon firmly interrupted his inner monologue, pronouncing his name distastefully, as if it held some unsavoury other meaning he was not aware of.

'They're ready for you now.'

He jumped up, as if jerked by invisible puppet strings. She viewed him with ill concealed disdain. He squared his shoulders resolutely, determined not to be bullied by this harridan, who was, after all, only an employee like himself. He moved towards the heavy oak door, raised his fist to knock purposefully.

'Mr. ffoulkes?' 

He turned to her, rather annoyed at the interruption. 

'You forgot your file.' She gave him a smug little smile, and returned to her typing.

He blushed furiously and hurried back over to the chair to collect his precious translation, almost tripping over his feet in haste. Then knocked the door.

'Enter.'

He did as he was bid, opening the door into the inner sanctum of the Watcher's Council.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn against the evening's chill. Illumination was provided by several brass desk lamps, their opaque glass shades casting a green glow on the richly grained cherry wood table. There was no light beyond these lamps, leaving the surrounding bookcases in shadow, and accentuating the table in the centre of the room.

Emphasizing also the men who were seated at the table. He knew some of them by sight, but more importantly by reputation. They were the men with the power. The power to direct, to choose, to intervene. He had understood that this meeting was important, but it suddenly occurred to him that this was a turning point in his life.

Twelve years he had slogged away in Prophecies and Translations, passed over again and again for promotions, applications for fieldwork constantly turned down. And then out of the blue came this prophecy; the most linguistically intricate he'd come across to date, and he'd managed to translate it. Both morphologically and grammatically complex, he'd discovered that the syntactical deep-structure was intrinsically linked to word meaning. All those years studying dead languages and dry scholarly works had finally paid off. He had been able to decipher the more obscure references, and had come up with a very viable translation. Of a prophecy which was of great concern to the inner sanctum.

'Ah, ffoulkes. Do have a seat.'

The invitation was accompanied by an airy wave of the hand, the casual gesture belying the speaker's true intent. It was not a request. Nigel moved nervously to the indicated chair, and sat down, placing the open file on the highly polished table.

'Well, it seems you have been something of a dark horse, Mr ffoulkes.' It was Travers who spoke again.

'I – um – that is to say… it was…' 

God, he sounded like a terrified schoolboy. Glancing around the room once again, he realized the source of his terror. This place reminded him dreadfully of the Academy, the gentlemen present, of the masters who had made his life miserable. Not just his, of course. They had all been desperately unhappy. 

He had been plucked, at age eleven, from a wonderfully carefree existence with his widowed mother, and removed to the boarding school which his father had attended. He had been vaguely aware of his father's connections with the Council, and knew that he had been killed in the line of duty, but it came as a shock to find out that the monsters he'd dismissed as childish nightmares were all too real.

There had been others there who thrived on the challenges that the school presented, others still who had fared far worse than him, but his memories of his boarding school days could be summed up by the nausea that gathered in the pit of his stomach when he drove past the Academy on his way home from London at the weekends.

'Perhaps you'd like to share your findings with us?'

He did not immediately recognize the man who had spoken, his voice was soft, yet with an underlying quality of menace which was quite chilling.

'Of course. Do forgive me.'

He began to submit his evidence, passing the meticulously translated documents around the table as he spoke. As the men nodded their affirmation and approval, his confidence grew, and he presented his case with more conviction. He finished his lecture self-assuredly, and removed his glasses with a flourish, polishing them with his handkerchief.

'A most thorough translation, my dear boy.' Travers set his papers down, and turned to the others. 'Don't you agree, gentlemen?' 

There was a murmur of consent, and he allowed himself a small satisfied smile.

'You realize, Mr. ffoulkes, that there are several prophecies concerning this child?' 

Again that cool soft voice floated up from the end of the table. He replaced his spectacles, and looked at the man who had spoken. The older man sat very straight in his chair, tapping a silver fountain pen gently against his copy of the translation. He seemed vaguely familiar, something about his eyes, but Nigel couldn't quite place him.

'Yes, sir. As you can see, I've cross-referenced the appropriate passages in those prophecies with this latest one.'

The man looked down, ran his pen down the margin of his copy, and then nodded thoughtfully.

'Ah. Yes. Forgive my oversight.' He did not sound particularly apologetic.

'Come now, Roger, I'm sure Mr. ffoulkes is unaware of your personal stake in these matters.' Travers again, his voice tinged with smugness.

'My personal stake?' 

Nigel swore that the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees at the other man's  reply. 

'You misunderstand me, _Quentin_,' he continued, with a pointed look at Travers. 'I merely wanted to confirm that all the relevant information had been taken into account. My son's involvement in this…' he paused, his lip curling slightly. '…scenario does not affect my views on the prophecy.'

Somehow Nigel managed not to gasp. Of course. It was obvious now, where he had seen those eyes before. Wesley's father. They had been in the same year at the Academy; friends, though not close. Wesley spent too much time studying to allow time for close friends. But he had been kind to Nigel, helping him in the curriculum areas he had been baffled by. Wesley was one of those boys who had thrived at the Academy; never seeming to pine for the holidays, or suffer from bouts of homesickness as he often had. Looking now at the father, he suddenly understood why Wesley had preferred school.

He had been ambitious, certainly, striving to excel in all disciplines, and Nigel remembered that during Wesley's tenure as Head Boy, his friend had been almost insufferably smug. But sometimes, when they were working together in their study dorm late at night, Wesley would relax, and ask Nigel to tell him about his home, his Mum and sister. And he would get a wistful faraway look in his eye, as if trying to recall some long forgotten memory of a happy childhood.

He had been so pleased for his friend when Wesley was appointed as Watcher to the Slayers in Sunnydale, and equally upset when he heard of the Council summarily firing him for events which had been beyond his control. And he'd been in disgrace ever since. 

He'd lost track of Wesley after that, he did hear reports of him working with the souled vampire, but Nigel had imagined that was just a spiteful rumour. The Wesley he knew would never have betrayed his principles thus. 

'We are agreed then, gentlemen.' Travers looked around the room. 'A team will be despatched to California to deal with the prophecy, and…' he coughed discreetly, 'those concerned.'

Nigel stared down at the document on the desk, his heart beat quickening. Clearly Wesley had changed. Wyndam-Pryce Senior had just admitted his son's involvement with the vampire's child, which disturbed him deeply, knowing what the prophecy foretold. 

There was no way that this could end well.

*~*~*~*

Holtz sat at the table quietly, careful not to show evidence of the white hot anger that threatened to consume him. The few that had made it out of the hotel were huddled in dark corners, as far from him as possible, aware now that his plan had not succeeded.

She had not been there, at their agreed meeting place, and he was surprised at the jolt of emotional pain that accompanied this thought. Had thought himself free of attachments, tied only to his slaughtered family by twin threads of rage and revenge. He had devoted years of his life to hunting down Angelus, determined to bring him to justice, to punish him for the murder of his beloved wife and dear children. The realization that he might actually care for another shocked him deeply. 

His fist closed around a cup of lukewarm tea, the skin cracking and opening along the barely healed abrasions. He had made it look real, had not held back as he had used his fists to batter that pale glowing face. Part of him was sickened by his ability to treat a woman thus, but another darker part of him knew it was necessary; deserved, even. She had gone to the man behind his back, and although in hindsight this had provided him with the perfect plan, he had been angry at her betrayal. She knew it too, knew she meant something more to him than the others, and had been perfectly willing to take the beating. 

Her devotion to their cause was absolute, yet recently he had seen something else in her, something new. In the way she moved when he was present, focused on the task completely, but aware of his scrutiny. A subtle flicker in her eyes, an almost imperceptible sway in her hips, a spark of challenge when he gave orders. A delicate shift in the dynamics of their relationship, from blind hero worship to something more complex.  His acquaintance with the classics was profound, having had the subject beaten into him at school, and he was not unaware of the nature of her infatuation. 

His pale Electra.

He knew her absence was not by her choice; understood too late the strength of resolve hidden within the quiet Englishman. Underestimated his determination to save the child. Not that one could censure such tenacity; Holtz had to admit a sneaking admiration for the man, despite his misguided loyalty to that creature. 

The air shimmered next to him, and the tiresomely familiar apparition materialized, looking somewhat more smug than of late. 

'See you're hot on the heels of the British guy.'

There was a time, an admittedly rather short time, when he had been in slight awe of this individual. It hadn't taken much familiarity to breed his contempt.

'Gave your little go-to girl a bit of a beating.' Sahjhan paused, a derisive smile marring his already disfigured features. 'Then again, you're not exactly averse to that yourself.'

For a brief moment, Holtz wished the demon corporeal, just to be able to hit him. But he was not a fool; he was not willing to risk unleashing this ungodly monster on the world, just for the simple pleasure of feeling his fist impact with its flesh. He knew of other, more permanent ways of dealing with Sahjhan.

'Anyways, your little revenge scenario for Angelus seems to have hit a snag. And I've given up waiting.' Again the creepy little smile. 

Holtz couldn't prevent his eyes from rising in enquiry.

'See, Captain Holtz, haven't been completely honest with you about my sworn enemy. It was never about the dumb vampire. Just that kid of his.'

This time his head jerked up. Sahjhan laughed, a hollow mirthless sound that filled Holtz with dread.

'Guess you can't imagine what it's like to see your name up there written in blood on an official prophecy. The one sired by the vampire with a soul will grow to manhood and kill Sahjhan. Kinda freaks you out. So, I've been busy. Tweaking a little grammar here, adding an extra word there, throwing in a few obscure references for authenticity… oh, and making sure the prophecy fell into the right hands.'

'The right hands?' Holtz spoke for the first time.

'Oh, yeah. These guys have spent centuries studying prophecies. Hell, I think their ancestors wrote some of them. Pryce used to work for them, before they fired him and he ran off to play understudy hero to the souled idiot.'

'The Watcher's Council.'

Sahjhan nodded with mock sagacity. 'Bunch of uptight misogynists. And not much with the pity, either. Wasn't remotely difficult to persuade them that Connor was to be the architect of the next apocalypse; that lot will believe anything they're foretold. And they don't mess around; I believe a team is on its way to California as we speak.'

Holtz stretched his fingers out across the worn surface of the wooden table, his fingertip sliding into a tiny gouge made by his knife, weeks earlier. Hurting her.

'I think this is where ours paths diverge, then. My intention was to punish Angelus, not to harm an innocent child.'

Sahjhan shrugged lightly.

'No skin off my nose. And, yes, I'm aware of the irony.' He curled his lip. 'Revenge is such a pathetic motive. I've nothing against the little nipper; it's just a matter of survival. Kill or be killed.' 

He began to shimmer again, and lifted his hand in a mocking salute.

'I'd like to say it's been fun, Holtz, but you're one joyless son of a bitch. Maybe you should loosen up, play some more games with that fiery little redhead. If she survives, of course…'

With that parting shot, the demon disappeared.

*~*~*~*

He was in deep trouble. Last time, Nick had sat behind his desk, coldly formal. He had really hauled him over the coals, lecturing him on his sentimentality, his general stupidity, and for meddling in affairs that did not concern him. 

Now the older man led him through the outer office, past the wide impersonal expanse of desk, to another inner room, a small sanctuary where a cosy fire cast soft flickering shadows on the walls. The older man slumped in a worn leather club chair beside the fire and waved his hand at its match opposite.

'Sit, Norman.' His voice held no anger.

He reached over to a decanter, poured two glasses of the pale amber liquid into antique Waterford crystal tumblers. The twenty-five year old Glenfiddich, Norman guessed. He was doomed.

Nick silently handed him the glass, then took a small sip of his own, breathing out a tiny sigh.

'It's out of my hands.' He did not meet Norman's eyes, swirled the whisky around the heavy base of the tumbler, sending little sparks of reflected firelight across the polished wooden floorboards. 

'Nick, I'm sorry.' 

The other man shook his head slowly, suddenly looking every century of his extreme age. 

'I know. I read the prophecies myself, after your initial interference. And I understand why you felt you had to intervene. But you know as well as I, that the Powers were never going to allow it.'

Even as he spoke, he was reaching over to a small lamp table, lifting a thin file and handing it to him. As he did so, Nick brought his finger to his lips and looked very seriously at him.

Norman took the file and frowned at his boss. The older man shook his head as Norman opened his mouth.

'No. Just read.'

Norman obeyed. 

Before he had finished, the glass had slipped from his grasp, meeting an untimely end on the hardwood floor. Nick winced slightly.

'S-Sorry. Just read that part, you know, the bit where…'

Again Nick fixed him with daggered eyes, his finger pressed firmly against his lips. It now dawned on him that Nick was blatantly contravening the Powers' orders, risking a hell of a lot to show him this prophecy. 

When he had finished, he set the papers down on the arm of the chair, looked up to meet the kindly blue eyes of St.Nicholas.

'You understand now, Norman?' 

He managed to nod, still reeling a little from the details contained in the document. 

'And you understand your part in this?'

He nodded again, and sat a little straighter in the armchair. 

'Will it hurt?' 

Nick looked down at his glass, and Norman knew the answer. 

'I wish there was some other way.' Nick's voice trembled a little. 'But the Powers want to make an example of you. Can't have the lower beings overstepping the boundaries.' He grimaced sympathetically. 'I managed to persuade them that mortality was a fitting punishment. You'll be on your own, Norman. No invisibility, no flying, and no wish magic. You know what must be done.'

The elf nodded, suddenly resolute.

'Yes, sir.' 

He stood up then, raised himself to his full five feet.

'I'm ready.'

Nick went to him, placed a firm hand on his shoulder. 'Good luck, old friend.' 

Norman smiled gently. 'Goodbye, Nick.'

It began with a faint hum, so low-pitched that he wasn't sure he'd heard it. Then the air around him moved, slowly at first, a lazy centrifugal force. He experienced the odd sensation of being simultaneously pulled apart and squashed together.

By now the room had vanished, he was trapped in a vortex of spinning lights and colour, and yes, it did hurt. Incredible excruciating pain, as if someone had forced a knife into the flesh between his shoulder blades, and was working it deeper into his body. With shock he realized that this was the removal of his wings; they were growing into his back, disappearing. His scream seemed to echo around him, then was cut off abruptly as he landed on his back on a hard floor.

He rolled onto his side, so winded that he could scarcely draw breath. The transformation itself had been painful enough, without the added agony of landing on this already tender area. He wanted to yell obscenities at the stupid bloody Powers that Be, but was only able to manage a feeble 'ow.' 

A shift in the air nearby encouraged him to open his eyes. She was kneeling at his side, watching him expectantly. She smiled in welcome, the sapphire in her locket glittering in the fading evening light.

'Norman. It's about time.' 


	4. The Absent Child

TITLE:  Things Past

AUTHOR:  Eloise 

RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Much.

NOTES: Chap 4 of 9 (I'm pretty sure it's 9!) Thank you for reviewing and sticking with the story. Sorry for the delay in updating – real life was ultra-hectic, and the Angel POV here was hard work, but necessary for the plot. (I swear there is a plot!) Huge thanks as always to Lonely Brit, my beta babe.

Chapter title and quote from Shakespeare's The Life and Death of King John, Act III sc.iv. Lines of dialogue from 'Loyalty' and 'Sleep Tight'

**Chapter 4: The Absent Child**

_'Grief fills the room up of my absent child,_

_Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,_

_Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,_

_Remembers me of all his gracious parts,_

_Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form:_

_Then have I reason to be fond of grief.'_

He stood at the door of the wrecked room, gazing at the scorched walls, the bubbled blisters on the painted wood crib. The air was scented with soot and ash, an odd reminder of his own childhood. Of dozing in his mother's lap by the fire, the glowing embers reminiscent of moving fingers. His father's hands, he had imagined foolishly, working late into the evening, counting coins, balancing ledgers, transacting business. 

Not an unpleasant memory, he realized, of a time when he had yet to fully disappoint his father's expectations. When he was still in awe of the man, respected him, desired his praise and affection more than he feared his blame and punishments. He had been very young.

Now the smoky scent was underlaid with delicate notes. The gentle spice of lavender and camomile mixing with his child's milky sweetness; if he closed his eyes he could see him there in his crib, tiny legs kicking in frustration at his lack of food. 

If he closed his eyes, he could see _him_ sitting on the bed, his fingers closing around a soft blue blanket, bursting into inexplicable laughter, verging on tears. With a sudden horror, Angel realized now the destination of Wesley's walk last evening. He had been to Holtz. 

The surge of rage that accompanied this realization overwhelmed him. He had trusted Wesley, more than he trusted himself. And in return he had betrayed him, stolen his child. His vicious attack on Lorne simply confirmed that he was in league with Holtz. 

His chest ached in place of his dead heart, his empty arms craving the warm weight of his absent child. His soul stretched tight, the demon in him twisting, shrieking for escape. Demanding justice. Revenge.

'_All that pain, all that rage… the only way she could deal was to join Holtz, take her revenge. You know how I knew that?'_

_'Because you would have done the same.'___

_'It scares me, you know, if anything like that ever happened to Connor, I don't know what I'd… I love my son.'_

_'Love can be a terrible thing.'_

Wesley was not wrong about that. He would suffer for his treachery; learn how truly terrible love could be. The pain in his chest tightened, his heart closing, hardening. There was no place there now for friendship, loyalty, forgiveness. There was room only for vengeance. Wesley would pay.

He turned abruptly in the doorway, slammed the door brutally, feeling the wall reverberate. Bit down the urge to smash his fist into it, and made his way downstairs. The lobby was deserted; Fred and Gunn had disappeared after Lorne had revealed Wesley's deception. Gone to find him, to warn him, he supposed. Let them. Let him run, let him try to hide. He would find Wesley. 

'Angel.'

No cakes, no pastries, no sweetie, no stupid tag on his name today. Lorne understood.

He swung round to face the demon, schooling his features to present a calm exterior.

'What?' Voice soft, flat. Failing at emotionless, he guessed, judging from the look of horrified sympathy on the demon's face.

'Fred and Gunn, they called. They're at Wesley's place.'

'They found him?' He could not prevent the growl that rolled beneath his words. 

Lorne shook his head. 'Wesley's gone. Shot gun and shaving kit gone.' 

And there was proof now. Proof that Wes had planned this, had coldly, calmly decided to take Connor. 

Lorne was watching him, biting the edge of his lip unconsciously. It was obvious that he was reading him, as if he'd been screaming Manilow at the top of his voice. 

'I'm not sure why Wesley went to Holtz…' he began tentatively.

'No!' His voice was sharp, edging towards fury. 'I don't want to hear this.'

'Angel, he must have had some reason for taking Connor.'

He moved swiftly to the desk, Lorne's shirt suddenly in his fist, his other hand an inch from the gash on the green cheek.

'Don't get why you're so keen to understand him.' His voice was a harsh whisper, scratching his throat raw. 'He took my son. And I don't really care why.'

Lorne was afraid, the shallow hitches in his breathing betrayed that much, but he was no coward. He pulled away from his grasp, straightening his shoulders, glaring at him with angry compassion.

'I know. But you're not going to find Wesley, and Connor, unless you figure out why he went to Holtz.' His tone softened slightly. 'I'm there with you, sweetie.' Lorne reached out and touched his sleeve diffidently. 'But Fred and Gunn have found someone who can give us information. And you need to talk to her.'

*~*~*~*

Blood on the pavement, recently spilled, scented the air outside Wesley's apartment building. With a measure of relief he recognized it as a stranger's, not Connor's, not Wesley's. Hated himself for the relief that it was not Wesley's. They had been there, though, and recently. He strode past the dark stain and entered the building.

The appetising aroma grew stronger as he approached the door of the apartment. He pushed it lightly, and it gave way easily. Fred was leaning over the couch, her face briefly hidden by a curtain of dark curls. Gunn was pacing back and forth, a small crossbow in his hand, clearly unhappy in the situation in which he found himself.

'Angel, man.' He stopped moving, placed himself square in front of the couch, not defiant, exactly. Apologetically protective, perhaps.

'She knows where he is?'

The other man shook his head, glanced briefly at the prone form. 'She hasn't said much. We found her in the park across the road.'

_'We talked about me taking Connor to the park and the one across from my place is… it's always full of kids._'

Another surge of rage twisted against the soul, and he unclenched his fists carefully. 

'She knows Holtz. She was muttering his name when we found her. She's been kind of in and out since that.'

He stepped back, allowing him access to the woman. She was huddled on the couch, her auburn hair fanned around her face, dark violet bruises contrasting starkly with the pallor of her skin. The bruising around her chin was reasonably recent, perhaps a day old, judging by the amount of redness in the contusions. There were other, older injuries, a well healed puncture incision in the palm of her hand that held disturbing similarities to a crucifixion wound.

And then the most recent damage, that laced the air with a warm heavy scent, made him salivate. Her right arm was cradled against her body, angled oddly, the bone jutting unexpectedly under her forearm. Her hand and fingers were a bloody mess. From simple observation he guessed that at least two fingers were broken, seemingly the result of a crush injury. In the dried blood on the back of the mangled limb he could make out the faint outline of a footprint; someone had quite clearly stamped very hard on her hand.

'Wake up.'

She stirred, moaned a little, her eyelids flickering briefly. He went over, knelt carefully by her, taking the glass of water that Fred offered. Dipped his finger in; allowed a drop of water to fall onto her cracked bleeding lips. She opened her eyes, tongue darting out desperately. 

'You want this?' Voice soft, infinitely soft and tender.

The venom in her gaze was refreshing. She understood about hate; revenge. Good. There would be no need for pleasantries then. He threw the water in her face. She gasped, wide-eyed with shock and shivering. 

'Angel!' Fred sounded horrified.

He turned to her, placed his finger silently against his own lips. She took a small step back, hovered uncertainly next to Gunn, who looked equally stunned.

'Well, my dear, I think we understand each other. You have information I desire. You see that I am willing to use certain methods to obtain this information. After all, I am an evil undead creature.'

She threw him a look of pure disgust, her lip curling slightly. 

'Good. It's so much more fun this way.' He slid his hand under her damaged hand, lacing his fingers through hers. Then carefully squeezed. He felt the bones creak under the pressure, her hiss of pain pleasuring the demon within.

Gunn was beside him now, pulling his hand back.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?' he yelled, not quite controlling his terror. 'She's not a demon! She's a human, and she's hurt…'

'She knows where Connor is. She was in on the plan.' He turned again to face the woman on the couch. 'I want to know the plan. And she's going to tell me. Aren't you, my dear?'

She began to laugh, rather manically, tears of agony running unchecked down her smudged cheeks. 

'Holtz was right. You're so gullible. Just like _him._' 

She broke off, began to cough violently, finally retching up milky strings of saliva, which she spat onto her good hand. 

'Then again, maybe he wasn't so gullible.' She indicated her injured hand. 'Didn't think he'd go this far.'

Wesley had done this. Had left the imprint of his boot in her blood. This did not fit with the idea that Holtz and Wesley were in this together. 

And now her eyes were rolling back in her head, and Gunn was pulling him away from the woman, as Fred moved towards her.

'Man, the girl needs medical attention. I know she's the enemy, but she's not going anywhere. Think you need to be talking to her boss, and not torturing her.' He glanced over at Fred, who was absorbed in tending to the woman's wounds. 'She's a bargaining chip.' He whispered, voice low, dark eyes suddenly shadowing. 

Angel nodded, and went to the door.

'Let's hope that Holtz cares enough about you to make it worth my while keeping you alive.'

*~*~*~*

It hadn't been difficult to persuade some of the less fatally injured members of Holtz's little band to give up his location. Not all as strong willed as the girl, obviously. He stood now outside the old mansion, his hand beside the bell.

'I was wondering how long it would take.' 

The voice was pleasant, almost conversational in tone, and Angel peered into the gloom of the entrance porch. Holtz stood in shadow, leaning against the masonry.

'How'd I do?' He noted the crossbow, casually trained on his heart.

'Slower than you should have been. As slow as I expected. Wasting your time on petty retribution when you should have been searching for your boy.'

He hated that the man knew him, hated that Holtz was right. That he had the upper hand. 

'Found your girl.' 

A reaction; a tiny, almost imperceptible change in the man's breathing, something he had not seen he would see in Holtz again. He cared for the woman. 

'Justine.'

'Ah. See, her name didn't come up while we were chatting. Yours did, though. And Wesley's.'

Holtz gave a small smile, waved his crossbow.

'We have things to discuss, Angelus. I have something you want, and you have something of mine. Perhaps we can trade.'

In his head the demon shrieked for escape, but he remained calm. 'The girl for Connor.'

'You believe I have your son? You are more of a fool than I took you for.'

'I know he came to you.'

'And you think he betrayed you.' Holtz shook his head in mocking wonder. 'It amazes me that you inspire such feelings of loyalty and devotion in others, when you clearly place so little faith in them. Your friend came to me, seeking to avoid the blood bath which was inevitable. Trying to disprove the prophecy.' 

'Prophecy?' He couldn't prevent himself from echoing the word. Wesley had been working on a prophecy concerning Connor. And suddenly it all made horribly perfect sense. The nights spent in his office, falling asleep over piles of books, the meetings with undisclosed sources, his darkening moods, all of this evidenced, he now realized, a quiet despair. Which he had somehow overlooked.

Holtz was smiling again.

'He didn't tell you? No, I imagine it would be difficult to share that kind of information with the father of the child.'

He fought to control the demon, knew it was pointless to rush the door, but the impulse to strangle the other man was overwhelming. And still Holtz smiled, a knowing, almost pitying smile.

'Oh, this is so much better than anything I could have planned,' he whispered gleefully. 'The Father will kill the Son. Can you just imagine how that poor man must have felt? Every time he left you alone with the child, wondering if he'd come back to find the baby devoured. He must have been absolutely desolate.'

No, it was not possible. That he would have killed his son? He would not, could not have done such a thing. How could Wesley have believed it? 

'Of course, the fact that it was false just makes it even more fun.' Holtz was relaxed, supremely aware of his advantage.  'I assume you've met Sahjhan by now. Not the most discreet of demons. He was able to travel back in time and change the prophecy. Chose a peril that would hold a special significance for Mr. Wyndham-Pryce.'

_The father will kill the son._

And Angel thought suddenly of a small child cowering in a closet, of a bruised arm, of scarred knuckles. Of blood on a wall, of a tempting hunger that threatened to wrench his soul from his body. Of a tiny baby cradled in his hands, as blood had dripped onto the blue clouded fleece. 

_'At least I would have had something to snack on…'_

And now understood the full implications of the expression of utter horror that had crossed his friend's face. They had played Wesley expertly, picked the one terror most likely to overcome his logical reasoning. And it had all been for nothing. The man had stolen his child for nothing.

He would never have harmed Connor.

Never. 

It was important that Wesley be made to understand that. Needed to believe it himself. 

Holtz was already a step ahead of him. 

'You'll go searching for him, tell him it's all lies, but you know he won't believe it. He's well acquainted with the nature of prophecies, did everything he could to disprove this one.' Holtz paused, his smile fading a little. 'And there are other dangers now. The boy is not yet safe.'

Angel hated this helplessness, aware that the other man knew much more than he was telling, but having no way to extract the information.

Well, one way.

'You tell me, and I'll return the girl to you, relatively unharmed.'

Holtz raised an eyebrow archly. 'Relatively unharmed? Hostage negotiations not really your strong suit, I see.'

He had touched a nerve, though, as much as Holtz tried to mask his concern for the woman under a show of indifference, it was clear that he cared.

'Angelus, I have never wished your child ill. I desired only to punish you for the atrocities you committed. If I could protect the boy from those who seek to harm him, I would. But in truth, I do not know where he is.'

He was not lying. But Angel did not care. Someone else needed to hurt as he was hurting.

'Maybe Justine knows. I'm sure I can persuade her to tell me.'

A muscle in the other man's jaw twitched involuntarily, then his face became still. 

'She won't tell you, even if she does know.' He sounded wistfully proud of his protégé's stubbornness, and it occurred to Angel that his feelings for the woman might be more than paternal affection. He moved away from the doorway.

'Angelus.' Holtz's voice was soft, even. 

He turned to face the man. 

'Take comfort in the fact that your son was taken by a good man, who truly believed he was doing the right thing. Who would do anything to protect the child.' Holtz paused; the only evidence of fury was the dark flash in his eyes. 'My son was stolen by a monster. I will never forgive you for that. I pray to God to keep your child safe, but I pray you do not find him. Ever. And I will do everything in my power to keep you from him.' 

And once again, Angel knew he was not lying.

*~*~*~*

The hotel was in darkness when he returned, Lorne had left a message that he had gone over to Wesley's apartment to do a reading on Justine. He stepped into the inner office, over to the desk, running his hand over the piles of books. Somewhere in there was the answer. Wesley would not have done this spontaneously. 'Man with a Plan', Gunn called him, and he was right. Wesley probably had the plans for his own funeral written out somewhere. 

He bit down a growl, and sat stiffly in the chair behind the desk, trying not to look at the tiny crib outside the door. Its presence there too raw a reminder of his friend's deceit. No matter how good his intentions, Wesley had stolen his son. And there would be a price for his betrayal.

He opened the first notebook, sighing as he flicked through page after page of intricate grammatical diagrams and references. Wesley had better hope he didn't find the funeral plans first. It was going to be a long night. 

Or maybe not, as he heard a dull thud outside the office door. He rose quickly and hurried across the room, then stopped dead as he heard a strangely familiar voice.

'Bugger.'


	5. The Power to Hurt

TITLE:  Things Past

AUTHOR:  Eloise 

RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Much.

NOTES: Chap 5 of 9. I feel so sad as I post tonight – and hope that all the fanfic writers out there in the Angelverse will continue the story that the wonderful Joss Whedon began. I quote Alexis Denisof when I say 'Long Live Wesley!' and indeed long may Angel the Series live in our hearts and imaginations. 

Now onto chapter 5 – this has a kind of 'meanwhile back at the ranch' feel to it – but the pieces are almost in position and are almost ready to play… Thanks as always to my lovely Lonely Brit – she works hard for no money! This chapter contains a few references to my Christmas story 'The Very Best Time of the Year', but it doesn't really matter if you haven't read it. If you're interested, the 'heaven in hell's despair' line that Halfrek quotes from one of the prophecies comes from Blake's 'Songs of Experience', "The Clod and the Pebble" – and is a source of inspiration for this story.

Chapter title and quote from 'The Maid's Tragedy' by Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher.

**Chapter 5: The Power to Hurt**

_'Those have most power to hurt us, that we love.'_

'Bloody vengeance demon. Might have known.'

She bristled slightly, sat up a little straighter.

'I really do prefer justice demon, if you don't mind.'

He groaned softly and rolled onto his side. Obviously these important semantic distinctions did not matter much to the elf. Or whatever this newly mortal being was. She rested her hand gently on his back, where his wings should have been.

'Did it hurt?' 

There was another muffled moan from him, and he struggled into a sitting position, rubbing his shoulder blades gingerly.

'What do you think? I was just made mortal. Every pain, every illness I experienced as an elf, suddenly magnified a thousand times. The magic ripped out of my body, my powers of healing removed. And you're wondering if it hurt.' He rolled his eyes in exasperation, but there was a resignation in his voice, an acceptance of his situation, that belied the angry words.

'I'm sorry. Stupid question, I know.' 

He shrugged his shoulders, gave a small gasp of pain at the movement. 

'No, it's okay.' He peered at her, his green eyes registering recognition. 'Hey. You never told me your name, last time we met.'

'Well, you were in a bit of a hurry. What with the getting hunted down by the Powers for illegal wish use. It's Halfrek.' She gave him a small smile, and was pleased to note that he attempted to return it. At least he wasn't still mad about the whole 'failing to help a child in pain' scenario. 

'Halfrek. Not that I'm not glad to see you or anything, but what in heaven's name are you doing here? I know why I've been sent, but Nick didn't mention anything about a vengeance… sorry, justice demon.'

She stood up and walked over to the shop counter. Lifted the buff-coloured manila file and carried it over to where he slumped against the steps. 

'The other day, when we bumped into each other in Files and Records? Well, some of your records got mixed up with my files.' She opened the folder and handed it to him.

'You know about the prophecies?' He looked around nervously, as if he expected to be overheard.

She pointed to the relevant page and nodded. He took the file from her and scanned the text, with a look of quiet resignation. After a moment he huffed out a soft sigh.

'I was really hoping this was all a delusion, brought on by too much Glenfiddich.' He closed the folder, and looked up, an unspoken question in his eyes.

'It's there in black and white. And red.' 

They shared a look, and she knew he understood. 

'Bloody prophecies.' he whispered, almost under his breath. So he knew she understood, too.

'So you're here to help me, then.' He paused, looked around uncertainly. 'And where exactly would here be?'

'Sunnydale. Magic Shop.'

'Oh.' He eyed her suspiciously. 'What spell were you planning on casting?"

'No. No magic, really. My friend manages the place. Just minding shop for her, while she picks up the pieces of her ruined life.'

He raised his eyebrows inquisitively.

'Oh, sweetie, don't get me started. I'll give you the cliff notes version. Vengeance demon made human for losing her power source. Fell for chunky human. Cute, but stupid.' She rolled her eyes.  'Cute but stupid asked her to marry him. She, being equally stupid, agreed. Hence, the horrendous outfit you now see before you.'

She gestured at the revolting bridesmaid's dress which, as she had suspected, had shrunk at least two sizes since she had last tried it on, and was now puckering terribly at the hips.

'He, being even more dense than her, had a panic attack and jilted her at the altar.'

She sighed deeply, having been through this with Anya earlier in the day. 'You know, it's not like I didn't warn her. I've always said these inter-species relationships never work. There's the age difference, for one thing. Nine hundred years is just too big a gap. Never mind the whole bigoted in-law thing he had going.' 

She took in the look of glazed incomprehension on Norman's face and gave a little half-embarrassed shrug.

'Anyway, she went off to work through her issues,' she airquoted the word, 'and I promised to look after the shop while she had her mental breakdown.'

'You didn't know he was coming here, then?'

She bit the edge of her bottom lip, and considered the question. 'I didn't exactly _know_,' she said softly. 'Prophecies are always a bit vague when it comes to stuff like dates and places. But the heaven in hell's despair passage was a bit of a giveaway. So I thought I might stick around after the wedding, see if I could help.' 

She paused, feeling a faint blush spread across her face. 'I feel bad, Norman. That I didn't help him when he was a child. I mean, that's what I do. My basic raison-d'etre. And I failed him.'

She felt a hand on her arm, and she lifted her head, almost afraid to look at him. But his face was kind.

'I failed him, too. My wish was cancelled out, he doesn't remember a thing.' He smiled sadly at her. 'The Powers were never going to let us mess with destiny.' He ran his finger along the edge of the file and the smile became a lop-sided grin. 'That's not to say we can't give destiny a helping hand…'

So, he had come to the same conclusions as her. 'You think we can do it?' She hardly dared to hope.

He nodded. 'We'll have to work together. As you can see,' he gestured to the centre of his back, 'my wings have been clipped. Permanently.'

'You need transportation?'

'You're the one with the wish magic. I'm just an ex-elf with a distinct lack of self-preservation.'

He winked conspiratorially at her, and then opened the prophecy. 

'Now, I seem to remember you saying it's about time.'

*~*~*~*

'Bugger' 

Norman rolled off his back, onto his side, and stifled a groan.

'Honestly, Halfrek, you couldn't have apparated me onto something soft?' he muttered under his breath. 

He touched the spot between his shoulder blades gingerly and white hot spikes of pain shot through his spine, travelling along newly screaming nerve endings. He would probably need years of chiropractic therapy just to be able to sit straight again. 

He looked around him, curious to see exactly where he had landed. And recognized the hotel lobby straight away. Certainly not as festive as the last time he'd been there. In fact, recent events had lent the place a certain post apocalyptic air, evidenced by the broken furniture, fissure cracks in the walls, and the dried blood which decorated the various surfaces.  But by far the most heartbreaking element of the whole tableau was the incongruous white cradle which lay empty in the outer office. 

Norman began to struggle to his feet, only to be knocked off them violently as a dark and fairly solid form collided with him.

'Where the hell did you come from?' He recognized the voice from his previous visit, but there was a menacing quality to the tone which had not been present before. The vampire held him down easily, his large hand clamped tight around his throat without any apparent effort. He struggled a little, wondering if Angel would recognize him before he passed out. 

Apparently so. The grip eased, but the vampire's hand remained at his neck. 'So you're in on it too.' The ice in the vampire's voice sent chills down his already aching spine.

'Not the way you think, Angel.' He felt a finger press hard against his jugular, and swallowed painfully. 'I know what he did.'

'Don't lie to me, elf!' he spat through gritted teeth. 'You helped him before, why should I believe you now?' 

Norman kept his voice very low and steady, suddenly acutely aware of his new mortality. 'I tried to warn him about the prophecy. Saw it in the boss' office by accident and left him a note.' For a second he thought of the Christmas card he'd written, and a wave of profound and heartfelt regret hit him. If only…

The vampire had loosened his grip and was sitting back now, on his knees, a look of utter confusion on his face. And the feeling of regret deepened.

Norman had worried so much about the effect of these events on Wesley and Connor, but to be honest, he hadn't really considered how the vampire would be affected. 

The man looked lost. Beneath the anger, rage and hatred was a devastated bewilderment. Here was a man whose best friend had stolen his child. With no explanation, no excuse, no reason. To lose a child was terrible enough, but to have a friend be the architect of your grief; that must have come close to destroying him. 

'I'm sorry. I wish I could have stopped him.' He saw something flicker in Angel's eyes; recognition, or realization.

'You! You could help me. You know the prophecy's false – they tricked him into believing I would kill Connor… and I would never, never…' his voice cracked, and Norman felt a tightness in his own chest.

'If I wished… you could help me…' He was pleading now, all anger gone from him, his palms open in supplication.

'I can't, Angel. The Powers found out about my warning, and made me mortal.' He half-turned to demonstrate his human form. 'No wings, no invisibility and no wish magic.'

'Then why? Why are you here?' Angel was almost yelling in frustration.

'Didn't say I couldn't help. I've been watching him, and I've a fairly good idea of where he's headed.'

The hand was at his throat instantly. 

'Tell me.'

Norman placed his hand around the other's wrist and fixed him with a stern but compassionate look. 

'That's why I'm here, Angel. I'm here to take you to Wesley and Connor.'

*~*~*~*

He wasn't going to risk going to her again. When he had worked with her the last time, he had the distinct impression that he was being played. Not the way he liked things at all. If he was going to trick anyone into making him corporeal, it certainly wouldn't be Ms. Lilah Morgan. No, he had a far more susceptible employee of Wolfram and Hart in mind. He shimmered into existence in the office and waited for the man to notice.

Gavin Park looked up from his desk with a confident smirk. 

'Sahjhan, I presume?'

'Gavin Park. I see your boss informed you of my existence.'

Immediately the supercilious grin vanished. 'Lilah Morgan is my associate, not my boss.

This was going to be so easy. The man's ambition was so naked it was almost obscene. 

'Associate, right.' He nodded, in what he hoped was a condescending way, carefully calculated to piss the lawyer off.  From the look on Park's face, he guessed that he had succeeded.

'So what are you doing here? I thought you were part of Lilah's pet project?'

'Well, things aren't working out as well as I'd hoped there.' He could actually see the man's ears prick up, the touch of smugness return to his upturned lips. 'Course, I realize now I went to the wrong person. She only got promoted because the other guy split. Should have figured she wasn't up to the job.'

'I could have told you that.' 

'I should have chosen someone who had inside knowledge, who knows how to gather information.' He smiled as Park sat up straight in his chair, his chest puffed up with pride.

'I've been watching you. You're very skilled at your job. That whole surveillance thing at the hotel was a masterstroke.' 

Park toyed with a pen in a pathetic attempt at self-importance. 

'Yes, I have to admit, I've always been an expert when it comes to surveillance. I was the one who suggested we continue to watch Holtz, after the child's abduction.'

This was new. Perhaps the man wasn't altogether useless. 

'Should have guessed. A man of your calibre…' he stroked the ego carefully.

'Yes, he's on his way to Sunnydale now. As is Angel.'

Information just dribbled from the man's incontinent lips. Didn't even have to break fingers.

'Wolfram and Hart send a retrieval team?' 

Park shook his head importantly.

The Senior Partners…' he stopped and corrected himself, '_We_ feel that case is no longer under our jurisdiction now.'

'Seems to me a guy like yourself should be showing a bit more initiative.'

Park drew himself to his full and not very impressive height, and gave an indignant cough.

'What do you mean?'

'Well, I was just thinking that maybe someone should be going to Sunnydale to collect the child. You know, bring him back under Wolfram and Hart's _jurisdiction._' He echoed the other's word. 'I'd do it myself, only – non corporeal, you see. Intangible. As in not able to touch.'

And now he could see the cogs beginning to turn in the other man's brain. Could positively hear the gears grinding. '

My guess is, the Senor Partners would be mighty impressed with an employee who demonstrated such ingenuity. Might just show Ms. Morgan a thing or two about her Special Project.' 

Park's mouth was half open, as he threw his line and hooked him.

'You'd have to be circumspect, of course. Wouldn't do for you to be personally involved. I'd like to help you; really I would, but again with the incorporeality factor.' He gave an apologetic shrug, and faded out obligingly.

'Wait!' 

He reappeared, relishing the desperate greed in the man's eyes.

'If I –' he lowered his voice '- if I arrange to have you made corporeal, you'd do that? Bring the baby back here?'

'Sure, totally not a problem.' He gave him his most sincere fake smile. 'Anything I can do to help…'

Oh, this was way too easy…

*~*~*~*

She was no longer fading in and out of consciousness so much; that had to be a good thing. Lorne had managed to persuade her to sing, although the sound she had produced bore more resemblance to a keening wail than an actual song.

The demon's red eyes grew bright as the cracked lips shaped the words of the spiritual. Gunn recognized the tune. One his mother had sung to them as a lullaby, when Alonna had been little enough to fit in the crook of her elbow. 

Her voice faltered and she stopped, closing her bruised eyes. Lorne reached over and touched her cheek, very gently.

'She should rest now.'

He looked up at them, and Gunn wasn't sure he was going to like what the empath demon had read in her. He liked the idea of Holtz and his followers as the enemy; he didn't want the whole issue clouded with shades of grey. 

'She's lost so much.  Her sister was killed by a vampire, that's why she joined him. To try to fill up the missing part of herself.'

He did not want to hear that. Too close, too raw, a pain that did not fade. Images of his baby sister, her face twisted in a demon visage, came unbidden to his mind, and he closed his eyes tight against them. He didn't want to understand, didn't want to empathize. 

Lorne stayed beside the girl, his gaze travelling to the newly bandaged hand and splinted fingers. Fred was getting as good as Cordy at this, he mused, rather disturbed by the thought.

'Wesley did this.'

It was not a question. Lorne looked shell-shocked, as if he still couldn't quite believe that the Englishman was capable of this kind of brutality, even after the battering he had received at Wesley's hands. Gunn understood. It saddened him to think that his friend had done this, but he was not surprised. And not just because of the whole Billy thing. He had seen it in Wes, the willingness to do what was necessary, no matter what the cost. 

_'Wesley is a good man…'_

_A guy you can rely on in a tight spot, a guy who always comes through..._

He thought of a small scared seven year old; of scarred hands and bruised arms, evidence of lessons that had clearly been learned through pain. Gunn could imagine the rhetoric the bastard had used to excuse the harsh treatment of his son – done to toughen him up, done for his own good. The child might have grown up, but he had learned the lesson well. He had done what needed to be done.  Done it for the _greater_ good.

Fred's fingers fluttered on his shoulder, and he turned to meet her worried gaze.

'Charles, I think we should get her somewhere… safe.' 

She was carefully not saying what she was thinking. What he was thinking. _Somewhere away from Angel._

Lorne looked over at them. 'Gotta say I'm with Fredikins on this one. I'm getting that a future featuring Angel will not be a shiny happy place for her.' He nodded in Justine's direction.

Gunn nodded grimly, wondering if this day could possibly get any worse. Angel had been tricked into almost feeding from his own child; Wesley had been going behind their backs to the enemy, and had stolen the kid; and both of them had basically tortured an already injured woman. The fact that his two best friends were now mortal enemies was just the icing on the cake. 

He bent down over the couch and slipped his arms under Justine's body, hefting her easily against his chest, being careful not to touch the bandaged hand.

'Okay, then, any ideas on where the hell we go now?'

*~*~*~*

Oh it was good to be able to feel again. He had missed that so much, the feel of cool metal sinking through soft flesh, the delicious heat of warm blood dripping onto his skin. The wonderfully satisfying crunch of sinews, muscles and bones as he wrenched the man's head to one side, the lifeless body slithering to the floor like a rag doll.

Oh, the first kill was always a good one. And it had been even more fun when the lawyer had finally figured out that he had been played. The look of utter disbelief, turning to horror, and then glorious primeval fear. Like a drug. 

Sahjhan stepped out in front of the truck as it slowed at the lights, and there was a screech of brakes. He really should have thanked Parks for this. Abject terror had loosened his lips even further, and he had revealed not only the whereabouts of Holtz's little protégé, but also the rest of Angel's merry little band of do-gooders. 

Never hurt to have a hostage or two around, to improve negotiations. He opened the passenger door and climbed into the truck, folding his arm around the neck of the stick thin human female. Wouldn't take much to snap her in two, he thought, taking care not to squeeze too hard, just yet.

'Well, isn't this just so cosy. Sworn enemies thrown together in the face of apocalyptic evil. Sort of like a supernatural 'Another 48 hours'.

The large black man swung his fist hard, and he deflected the blow easily, responding with a punch that cracked the man's head against the side window. 

Sahjhan leaned back against the headrest and grinned, caressing the female human's throat delicately.

'So. Anybody up for a big family reunion?'

His question was met with various looks of fear and loathing.

'Oh, and in case you were wondering – the apocalyptic evil? That would be me.' 


	6. Down into the Dark

TITLE:  Things Past

AUTHOR:  Eloise 

RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Much.

NOTES: Chap 6 of 9.  Thanks to all of you out there who review, it's always lovely to get feedback. We're back to Wes POV this chapter (my favourite!) and I dedicate the Wes/baby Connor stuff to my beta babe, Lonely Brit – you go write the abandoned WIP, girl!

Italicized quotes at the chapter end from the ep. 'Loyalty'

Chapter title and quote from 'In Hardwood Groves' by Robert Frost.

_'Before the leaves can mount again_

_To fill up the trees with another shade_

_They must go down past things coming up_

_They must go down into the dark decayed.'_

**Chapter 6: Down into the Dark**

It was no good. 

He had driven the last ten miles to the accompaniment of infant hunger wails, which had begun as pianissimo snuffles, but had now crescendoed to surprisingly loud and impatient screams. He turned to glance back at the baby seat, as Connor paused to draw breath before continuing with the aural assault.

The child's face was dark crimson, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his whole face screwed up in furious frustration. 

'Connor,' he reasoned pointlessly 'it's only another thirty miles. If you could just hang on till then…'

The ear-piercing shriek that reverberated through his skull answered his question. He rubbed his hand across the strong beard shadow and sighed.

'Okay. There's a truck stop just up here. I'll stop and you can have some milk.'

He needed something himself. He had not slept properly since he had first translated the prophecy, and had been running on nervous energy for the last twenty four hours. It would be okay, he told himself, he would have time to rest for twenty minutes or so, even if Angel had discovered where he was going, and was headed after him. 

He pulled the SUV into the truck stop and parked in the warm sodium glow of the diner lights. As he turned the ignition off, Connor's cries quieted a little, as if he sensed that food was on its way. Wesley lifted him out of the car seat and cradled him close to his chest. And could now feel the rapid flutter of the baby's heart against his own; the exhausted half sobs of hunger wracking his tiny frame.

'Oh, Connor, I'm sorry,' he whispered, gently rubbing his hand over the child's rigid back, in what he despairingly hoped was a comforting manner. He wished he could think of a lullaby that might soothe him, but his recent experience with Lorne filled him with such shame that no song would come. Tried to remember if his mother had ever sung to him as a child, to comfort him when he woke in the middle of the night, terrified by the shadows in his bedroom, but all he could recall was his father's cold voice telling him to stop snivelling and grow up. 

'Hush, now. We'll be okay,' he whispered with a confidence he did not feel. He slipped the changing bag over his shoulder and entered the diner.

The place was almost deserted, as he had expected at this time of the, well, morning; and a waitress approached him as soon as he had found a booth. She smiled down at Connor, and flipped open her pad. 

'What can I get you, hon?'  Her voice was soft and warm and welcoming, she was clearly touched by the sight of harassed Dad and hungry infant. He could barely meet her eyes.

Instead he lifted a bottle of formula out of the changing bag and she smiled broadly and nodded.

'Little guy's hungry? They don't have any sense of timing, do they? My youngest, he's fourteen now,' she added 'used to feed all night and sleep all day.'

He bit down the insane desire to compare her offspring's sleeping habits to those of the undead. Not the kind of comment that would be favourably looked upon, he reasoned; casual throwaway remarks on the vagaries of vampiric nature tended not to be bandied about by normal healthy individuals with paternal responsibilities. He caught a glimpse of his haggard reflection in the diner window and managed a not altogether faked yawn. 

'Want me to heat this up for him?' 

Wesley gave a grateful nod, as Connor shifted his position and gave another whimper.

'And coffee for you, hon? You look pretty beat.'

'Please.' Simply thankful for her lack of curiosity, he gave her a tired smile, and she bustled off to heat Connor's bottle.

A few minutes later Connor was tucked in crook of his arm, contentedly suckling. His eyelids were beginning to droop, so he ran his fingers lightly over the baby's tiny foot. Remembering a comment from Cordy, as she had observed Angel feeding Connor.

'He's playing you, you know. Gets the bottle and then uses it as a comforter.'

She had marched over and slipped off the little socks, running perfectly manicured fingers over the soles of Connor's feet. The baby had mewed in protest, but the sucking had begun again with renewed vigour.

'You've got to keep him awake. Tickle his feet,' she had explained, with the strange maternal wisdom she had seemed suddenly to possess. 

He looked up as the waitress placed his coffee on the table, saw her smile in recognition, as his fingers traced little circles around Connor's toes. She leaned down a little, ready to do that thing that women did when they saw babies. 

'Oh, your daddy knows all the tricks, yes he does.' She ran a plump finger along the curve of Connor's cheek.  'You're such a beautiful boy, yes you are. And you have your daddy's eyes.' 

He was not prepared for this. He had expected the guilt in reaction to her well-meant words. But he was not prepared for the tiny horrible undercurrent of hope that accompanied the shame. The knowledge that he could do this, get away with it, and people would believe him. He was at once both satisfied and sickened by his thoughts.

'What's his name?' The waitress was still fussing gently over the baby.

'Connor.' And he could hardly believe he had been so stupid. That's it, Wes, old boy, just blab the child's real name to every passing stranger you meet. All those despicable feelings of satisfaction vanished instantly. 

'Ah, that's a lovely name. Irish, isn't it?'

And now he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck lift, the sweat trickling down his sides, desperately willing Connor to finish the bottle so that they could get the hell out of there. He had been mad to stop here, Angel had obviously figured out where he was headed, had sent word that he was to be stopped. And he had fallen into the trap.

'- alright, hon?' She was upright again, eyeing him with worry. He realized dimly that she was asking him a question. 'You look very pale. You sure you're alright?'

He forced himself to remain outwardly calm. The woman knew nothing of Angel, or him. She was just a waitress, for God's sake. He was seeing conspiracies everywhere.

'I'm fine. It's been a long night, that's all. He cuddled Connor close to him, and the baby snuggled against his jacket, the movement producing a contented burp. The waitress giggled, a light bubble of sound which floated across the diner, shaking him out of his bleak mood.

'Well. Looks like someone enjoyed their food,' she smiled, and gave Connor's back a brief pat before returning to the counter.

Wesley drank the coffee as quickly as he could, without arousing any further suspicion, then gathered up the empty bottle and stuffed it into the bag. He walked to the till, desperate to seem nonchalant, and paid the bill.

The waitress bit her bottom lip, as if she wanted to say something, but wasn't sure how it would be received. He stood silently waiting, granting her tacit permission to speak.

'Look, I know it's none of my business, but you look worn out. Maybe you should think about getting a few hours sleep, before you go driving off again. I've seen too many accidents happen that way.'

He smiled sadly at her, reassured her that he was absolutely fine, and really he didn't have far to go.

'Well, I'm just saying, it won't kill you if you're a few hours behind schedule.'

And he could have laughed hysterically at the irony of her words. 

*~*~*~*

He parked the SUV against the kerb, confident that there would be no one around at five am to give him a parking ticket. He looked over at the shop across the road. The blinds were drawn, but he was sure he could see dim light filtering through the wooden slats. He had already called at the address he had for Giles' flat, but had been informed by the somewhat irate new tenant that the British guy had moved, adding sarcastically that he really enjoyed being woken in the early hours of the morning by a squalling brat. Wesley had apologised profusely and done his best to placate Connor, who was now sleeping peacefully in his car seat.

He lifted the seat out, slung the changing bag over his shoulder and removed his suitcase from the back of the vehicle. If he was going to get Giles to help him, he would need all the details of the prophecy to give his arguments credibility. He closed the door quietly, and walked up to the door of The Magic Shop.

He pushed it tentatively with the palm of his hand, and was surprised when the door gave way. Swung into a wonderfully welcoming interior, reminding him of a second hand bookshop near his old college. Under other circumstances he would have revelled in the sensory stimulations he was experiencing, the strong scent of herbs and old parchment, the warm glow of the opulent and totally unnecessary wooden shelving, the delicate squeak of floor boards underfoot.

'Hello?' 

His enquiry was tentative, unsure of his reception, considering his history with this man. Oh, he'd been an idiot, freshly promoted with only a year in the field, filled with a false sense of his own importance. And it hadn't taken them long to knock that out of him, to discover his insecurities, and play on them. 

He'd expected to have problems with the slayer, he'd heard of her attachment to Giles, in fact, it was one of the reasons he had been assigned to Buffy. However, what he had not anticipated was the contemptuous dismissive behaviour of her former watcher. As a young man, Wesley had heard the stories of Rupert Giles, the rebel, the rogue, the Ripper, and had held a secret admiration for the man. To be on the receiving end of his sharp sarcastic tongue had hurt him more than he wanted to admit; had brought out the worst in him, as always. The man had a knack for exposing his (admittedly many) weaknesses, and commenting on them, causing Wesley to wonder idly if Giles had been in secret collaboration with his father.

They had, of course, been in contact since the disastrous events of the High School graduation day, mostly for business purposes, although the most recent had been after Buffy's funeral. Wesley had sent what he hoped was a reasonably informal letter of condolence, and Giles had written back to thank him, a very honest letter in which he expressed his regrets about how things had gone in Sunnydale. He had returned to England after Buffy's death, only to return when Willow and the others had resurrected Buffy, according to the few sources he still had at the Council. So it was not without a certain degree of trepidation that he entered the shop. 

There was no answer to his quiet greeting. He set the suitcase and baby carrier down carefully and leaned over the counter. 

'Nice view.' An unfamiliar female voice wafted across the room.

He straightened instantly, rosy with embarrassment, and turned in the direction of the voice. She sat at a table by a small bookcase, her fingers playing along the spine of a large book. He did not recognize her, but that did not necessarily mean she shouldn't be there. He had worked in Sunnydale long enough to know that the whole idea of keeping her identity as the  Chosen One secret had held little significance for Buffy. This woman could simply be another one of the many friends the slayer surrounded herself with.

'Ah. I was, er, looking for Mr. Giles. The owner, you know.'

She smiled, a soft tenderness lighting her eyes. 'I know. He's not here, I'm afraid. He had to go home.'

'Oh.' He moved close to Connor, suddenly wary of the stranger. 'Perhaps if you could let me have his address, then. I need to see him on a matter of some urgency.'

Again the soft smile, as if she understood much more than he was saying.

'Home, as in England.'

His heart plummeted. God, he was so stupid. He should have called first, checked with Giles, set up some kind of contingency plan. And now here he was, in probably the first place Angel would come looking for him, with no idea of what to do next.

'Oh.' 

Idiot. Fool. Coward. Weakling. He could almost hear the cold voice echo across an ocean. Somewhere in the room a clock chimed.

'Maybe I can help.' She did not move from her seat, patted the chair next to her. 'You seem a bit – worried?' 

Understatement of the year. He eyed her with growing suspicion, and lifted Connor's seat onto the counter, curving his arm under the handle protectively.

'I'm sorry, but who exactly are you? Do you work for Mr. Giles?'

She shook her head; her loose chestnut curls bobbing a little, and smiled apologetically. The light from a reading lamp was briefly reflected in a dark sapphire pendant, and he tensed automatically, recognizing the style of the amulet.

'Vengeance demon.' He whispered under his breath, wondering how Angel had figured out his whereabouts so quickly. The demon remained seated at the table; smoothed a hand over her hair and frowned slightly.

'You know, I keep telling people, Justice Demon, but no, you're all just fixated on the whole vengeance thing. A girl could get a complex…'

He remembered then, during his disastrous tenure in Sunnydale, the vengeance demon who had lost her powers.

'Anyanka? Anvenger of scorned women?'

She wrinkled her nose, and gave him the pitying look of a teacher who has been disappointed by the incredible dimness of a promising student.

'And have you scorned many women recently, Wesley? I mean, please! We're not even the same colouring!'

He felt at once obscurely ashamed and rather annoyed by her words. He hadn't paid much attention to the demon's appearance at the time; other matters had seemed more deserving of his attention. Pissing off one slayer, helping another on the road to the dark side, disobeying the council, getting fired. Stuff like that.

She rolled her eyes, and huffed out a small sigh. 

'I'm Halfrek. Tend to do most of my wish work with kids…' Her voice grew soft and tailed off, as she began to find her fingernails incredibly interesting.

Wesley placed his palm on Connor's chest, and watched her warily. 

'You're here for Connor.' 

'Not specifically. He's part of the deal, yes. But I'm mostly here for you.'

'It may have escaped your attention, but I'm not a child. If you're here to avenge me, I'm afraid you're about twenty five years too late.' He could not prevent the acid that dripped from the words, the coldly sarcastic tone he hated in his own voice.

To his deep embarrassment she bent her head in obvious distress. And that meant she knew. 

'I'm sorry. There's really no excuse, but I am sorry. I only found out about your situation a few days ago. I thought I might be able to help.'

'I'm assuming you're referring to my current dilemma, rather than my dysfunctional childhood.' God, he was beginning to talk like a bloody Californian. 'Unless you're planning on travelling back in time,' he added dryly.

She looked up at him, somewhat startled. Then ran her fingers over the open file on the table in front of her.

'I know about the prophecy.'

'So you know why I took him, then.' Keeping his voice light, unwilling to acknowledge the depth of pain these words caused.

'I know you tried to disprove it. I know how long and hard you tried.' 

He felt the steady rise and fall of Connor's chest under his hand, and her voice was now the only sound in the room.

'But I'm afraid you were right. The Father will kill the Son.' Her finger tapped the file on the table. 'There are other prophecies, bound up with the Nyazian Scrolls, which support your translation.'

It hurt, an actual physical pain to hear it, the confirmation of what he had secretly still hoped might be false. He lifted the baby seat down and approached the table in resignation. He seated himself next to her, and she slid the file under his gaze.

These were documents that he had heard of only in legends, and he was suddenly aware of the risk this demon was taking in allowing him access to this. He raised his head to meet her eyes, filled with such sympathy that it made his throat ache.

'There are three prophecies here, Wesley, all linked by a common thread.' Her voice was soft, thrumming low in the warm air. 'You just need to figure out what that thread is.' 

He slapped his hand down on the file hard, and the table rocked a little, setting the baby's seat in motion. He reached down quickly and steadied it.

'You know he's after me! You must know that! How the hell am I supposed to figure out the intricacies of interconnecting prophecies with a grief stricken and possibly homicidal vampire after me?  I just don't have _time_!'  His voice cracked on the last word.

She was looking directly at him now, one hand fluttering deliberately to the jewelled amulet around her neck.

'What if I could give you time? All the time that you need.'

It was obvious what she was proposing. And Wesley knew that this was madness, to even consider it. He knew the dangers of wish magic, had had that lesson drummed into him at an early age. Magic use in general was frowned on by his father, to be used only in extreme circumstances, and certainly not to satisfy some selfish whim or other.

He looked down at the sleeping babe, the horrific image of Angel's fangs buried in his son's neck suddenly strong in his mind.

'Wesley, please. Let me help you.' 

'I can't – I don't' know what to do!' His voice rose on the last word, and Connor wakened at the sound, his bottom lip quivering. Wesley reached down and lifted the tiny baby, cradling him gently.

'It will be alright.' She passed him the file, then went to the counter and fetched the suitcase and changing bag, setting them down beside the car seat. 'Just wish it.'

He met her eyes once more, read there only care and concern. Then closed his own. 

'I wish – I wish I had more time…'

Somewhere in the room a clock chimed. 

'_Tick tock, Wes, running out of time…'_

_'How much time do I have..?'_

_The dark question you harbour is only when…'_

_The slow measured tick of a grandfather clock outside a childhood prison in the darkness below the stairs…_

Wesley clutched the little body tightly to his own as the world began to spin, fading to black.

Halfrek folded her hands on the empty table, her locket glowing faintly.

'Done.'


	7. The Arches of the Years

TITLE:  Things Past

AUTHOR:  Eloise 

RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Much.

NOTES: Chap 7 of 9. In which the title of this fic becomes clearer, and Eloise indulges her fantasies, just a little… As always, huge thankyou hugs to LB, for beta-ing. Lines of dialogue from the ep 'Loyalty'. Italicized quote on the nature of the past from 'The Go-Between' by L.P.Hartley.

Chapter title and quote from 'The Hound of Heaven' by Francis Thompson.

_'I fled him, down the night and down the days_

_ I fled him down the arches of the years,_

_ I fled him, down the labyrinthine ways_

_ Of my own mind, and in the midst of tears.'_

**Chapter 7: The Arches of the Years.**

The door banged behind him, as he tossed his hockey stick against the pile of boxes next to the hall stand. He suddenly noticed the dusty footprints he had left on the braided rug in the hallway. It wasn't as if they had ever worried too much about the place looking perfect, but Mrs. Wilson would be over later to do the final clean before they left. And Connor didn't really want another half hearted second-hand lecture from his uncle on the state of the house.

As if on cue, his uncle appeared in the door way leading to the kitchen.

'That you, Connor?' He sounded tired, and Connor noticed that he was wearing his glasses again, rather than his contacts.

'You hoping for Mrs. Wilson?' he countered, hoping to coax a smile out of him.

'Please, Connor, try to pick up the worst of the debris before she comes.' Deep sigh. 'You're not the one who has to listen to her going on about the youth of today.' 

Uncle Wes smiled tiredly as he spoke, and Connor grinned in return, obligingly trudging up to the bombsite that was his bedroom, to sort through the piles of festering clothes and various experimental mould cultures which had flourished in a few discarded take-away boxes.

He carried the rotting containers down to the kitchen, where his uncle was preparing one of the six dishes he could actually cook. From the familiar scent of basil, he had guessed his uncle's university bedsit favourite, spag bol, and leaned over his shoulder to peer into the saucepan. 

'Dear God, what in heaven's name are you carrying?'

He glanced at the penicillin culture in his hand and grinned wickedly.

'Thought maybe your sauce could use a little seasoning…' he offered, then dodged past the man to drop the boxes into the trash.

His uncle sighed loudly, and began his usual routine on smart-mouthed teenagers who were getting a bit too big for their boots, while he flopped down at the kitchen table and rested said boots on the chair opposite.

'What's with the home cooking? Thought we were supposed to be packing all this stuff.' He gestured to the pots and pans piled into a packing crate in the corner of the kitchen. He eyed the cookie jar on the table top and wondered if he could distract the man long enough to swipe some.

'Felt guilty about the amount of takeout we were consuming. Apparently you're a growing boy, or some such thing.' He poked absently at the sauce with a wooden spoon.

'Yeah, that's me, nutritionally deprived child.' Connor took advantage of his turned back to ease the lid off the jar. _Hand in, grab a couple, easy does it…_

'Don't even think about it.' He was still leaning over the stove, stirring the sauce. 'I have eyes in the back of my head…' He paused, as if remembering something, ran his fingers over that particular area. 'Actually, that did happen to me once…'

'Freaky.' He was interested, though. 'What happened?'

His uncle carried a pan over to the sink and drained the pasta into a sieve. 'Your Aunt Cordy, she was out looking for money we were owed.'

Connor grinned broadly and lifted down bowls for the spaghetti. He loved 'Cordy' stories. He listened contentedly as he set the table, while his uncle struggled valiantly with errant strands of pasta that escaped from the sieve and wriggled onto the counter top. He set the bowls on the table, and sat down.

He missed them, Connor knew. He always got that wistful look when he told a story from his past. Or his future, depending on your point of view. Of places and people he had not seen for years. Fifteen years, to be exact, he had turned fifteen a few months ago. He knew why they were leaving; Uncle Wes had never hidden anything from him. He knew who his parents were, the vampire with a soul, and his resurrected sire, Darla. He knew why Uncle Wes had taken him from his father fifteen years before. And he knew why they had to go back.

Back to the future.

That was a private joke they shared, Connor loved that film, and got a real kick out of the whole concept, especially when Uncle Wes was in the middle of a 'why we don't draw attention to ourselves by being unbelievably good at every sport you try, Connor' lecture. 

'Got it, Doc,' he would kid, managing to crack the frown on his uncle's unusually solemn face.

But he secretly knew that he was right, it would not do for them to be discovered before time.

And so he tried to play down his abilities, faking a missed shot or tackle when possible. He was surprised that Uncle Wes had even allowed him to play on the hockey team. He had come home from practice with the news that he had been picked to play centre, practically bouncing off the walls with pride, and his uncle had started to shake his head apologetically, ready to deny his permission. Then Connor had held up the number three jersey, and the words had died on his lips. He had simply nodded his acquiescence, slipping off his glasses and turning back to the paper he was marking. 

Connor had known there was something deeper behind the man's sudden change of heart, but he had decided not to push it, had simply given his uncle a brief grateful hug, and headed out to Scott's house, before he had a chance to change his mind. 

'- any plans for tonight?' Uncle Wes was twisting his fork in his spaghetti, toying with it more than anything.

'Don't play with your food.' Connor was relieved to see a grin on his face. 'Come on, Uncle Wes, it's not bad, really. Even for you.'

His uncle obediently swallowed a mouthful of food. 'So, are you going out? Last night with the guys before we -' his voice dropped '- leave.'

'There's a party thing over at Scott's house. And before you start, yes, his parents will be there and there will be no beer, drugs or sex.'

His uncle raised a sardonic eyebrow, for a moment his old self. 'Though there will of course be rock and roll.'

'Oh, of course. Played at an annoyingly loud volume.' He was quoting his uncle directly, producing another smile. 

Then Uncle Wes became suddenly serious.

'Not too late home, Con. We've a busy day tomorrow.'

'I know. Finish packing.' He returned the sober look. 'Practice.'

His uncle nodded. 'You've been studying hard, I know.' He looked over to the window, his face pensive. 'It's not fair, expecting you to cope with… this, as well as your school work.'

Connor shook his head fiercely, poked him in the arm. 'Hey. No backing out now. We have a job to do. You didn't force me into anything.'

His uncle had turned very red, and he laid his fork down, folded his hands in front of him on the table.

'You never had a choice, Connor.' In a voice so quiet he almost didn't catch it.

He reached over, laid his hand over his uncle's. 'Neither did you, Uncle Wes.'

The hand below his twitched, and he laced his fingers through the other man's, and tightened them.

He hated this, seeing the shame that the man had no reason to feel. Connor could not have asked for a more idyllic upbringing; had spent his childhood years in contented bliss, knowing he was cared for, protected, cherished. His uncle had told him of a vampire with a soul and a prophecy that predicted death; of a wish made in a desperate attempt to gain more time; of a family that awaited him back in Los Angeles. He had grown up with the knowledge that he was special. That he had a destiny. 

And he knew that in a little over a day he would return to the place and time he had disappeared from to fulfil that destiny.

*~*~*~*

He removed his glasses, set them beside the file on his desk, and pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. 

For the first few years of their life in the past, he had taken to wearing contacts, as no one he had ever met had seen him without spectacles. Just one way of disguising his appearance, along with a fine beard shadow. He could never bring himself to allow a full beard, that reminded him too much of his father. He didn't think he could bear to look into _that _face in the mirror every morning. But as he had grown older, his eyesight had deteriorated with the constant book work, and he had judged it safe to adopt his glasses again.

He looked down at the documents Halfrek had sent with him, suddenly recalling the look of tenderness that she had bestowed upon him, before granting his wish. He closed his eyes and remembered.

He was plunged into a brief but terrifying darkness, then opened his eyes to find himself bathed in the warmth of the early morning sun, Connor sleeping peacefully in his arms. His bags and the prophecy notes beside him on the pavement. He looked around, realizing he was still in Sunnydale, but not one he recognized. Plus his SUV was gone.

It was clearly morning, but not so early that the shops were closed. There were shutters up; the news stand next to where his car had been parked was already trading. He gathered his few belongings and walked over, as casually as his rapidly beating heart would allow, and purchased one of the few copies of The Times.  

The date at the top of the page confirmed what he had begun to suspect. 

_6th March 1987__._

He scanned the headlines automatically, fighting the wave of dizzying nausea which swept over him. 

_187 killed as ferry capsizes at Zebrugge._

He remembered that; his father had been in Europe at the time on Council business, and had been booked to return by ferry. Had changed his mind and decided to fly. And somewhere deep inside him, Wesley had felt a tiny shameful twinge of disappointment. 

That had been his A –level year, he had been head boy. A self-righteous prig, he realized now, far too concerned about rules and regulations. He reddened with embarrassment at the memory of his younger self. With that thought came the realization that he needed to get out of Sunnydale as soon as possible. It would not do to come across younger versions of Cordelia, Willow or Xander. 

He opened the file that Halfrek had handed him, contained within were several documents, the first that caught his attention was a small navy passport, issued in 1986 to one Wesley W. Peregrine, legal guardian of Connor A. Peregrine. He could not help the smile that crept onto his lips, his admiration for this Justice Demon growing deeper by the minute. She had not only provided for every eventuality, but done so with style and wit, knowing that he would appreciate the Latin meaning of his new surname.

'_The past is a foreign country_' indeed, he thought to himself, and cuddled the sleeping babe close to his chest.

And it had been shockingly simple, the move to Vancouver, settling themselves in a quiet village to the east of the city. Careful not to draw any more attention to himself than was necessary, Wesley had found employment as a lecturer in one of the city's community colleges, lecturing in medieval English literature and linguistics. Not particularly challenging or highly paid work, he was the first to admit, but his knowledge of the outcome of every rugby world cup and cricket test series over the next fifteen years had certainly helped to supplement their income.

He looked over at one of the few boxes still left in the room, containing some of the rarer texts he had gathered over the years, most of them paid for with those ill gotten gains. But these had been a necessary expense, if he was ever going to decipher the links between the three prophecies.

And he had almost done it. Thanks to Halfrek , he had found the time he had so desperately needed to research the demon Sahjhan, to understand Connor's part in his downfall, had gained understanding of the passage which talked of building heaven in a hell's despair. He had even managed to make some sense of the Nyazian prophecy, that terrible, awful, simple prediction that the father would kill the son.

But the true meaning behind the first prophecy still eluded him. He had been studying the scrolls for almost eighteen years now, and he could not see how it connected with the others. 

Here he was, only a day away from the fulfilment of all three prophecies, and he was still utterly clueless. He looked down at his notes, at the underlined phrase that he had translated so long ago. 

'Redemption through forgiveness…'

The apocalyptic evil, the coming darkness, the fiend unleashed; that was all well and good. But there was no way Angel could ever be forgiven. So many people had been hurt not only by Angelus, but also by the souled version of the vampire. And most of his victims and their families were long dead, therefore lacking the ability to forgive whether they willed it or not. The only possibility of pardon lay with Holtz, and Wesley could not imagine the man granting absolution to the demon who had callously slaughtered his family. He honestly could not see how the Shanshu prophecy would be realized.

And he was running out of time, again. Nothing changes, Wesley. Still failing, after all these years. His father's voice mocked him, as clear in his head as the last time they had spoken on the telephone, sixteen years ago. He stood up abruptly, and closed the prophecy, placing it in the worn leather briefcase by the desk. Moved into the den, where Connor was dozing in front of the television. 

He gazed at the form of the sleeping child. Not in all things, Father. This was something he had not failed in.

They had spent the day in preparation for the confrontation that awaited them in Sunnydale. Connor had studied diligently, as he always did, and had perfected both the spell and the fighting techniques he needed to face Sahjhan. He had observed the fierce concentration on the child's face as he swung the sword with precise strokes, and Wesley's heart had swelled until he thought his chest might burst with pride. 

An angel of a child, his kindergarten teacher had called him, and Wesley had bitten his lip so hard it bled. Connor had been his life. He was a carefree, sunny-natured little boy, a disposition that amazed Wesley, considering his dark parentage. He had encouraged the boy's inquisitive nature, and tried to be as open as possible with him about his family, his destiny.

And Connor had accepted it all, as it were the most natural thing in the world to be the impossible offspring of two vampires, to be kidnapped by your father's best friend to protect you from prophetic infanticide. And had accepted that he had a part to play in the prophecies; had embraced his role with a dedication and tenacity which had almost broken Wesley.

He certainly did not deserve to be this happy. He looked at Connor's face, seeming younger in sleep than his fifteen years. Noted the tiny ghost of a scar at his hairline, where he had fallen during a junior hockey game, and smacked his head against the goal post, knocking out a first tooth in the process. Remembered the hot shock of guilt that hit him in the gut, as he had held the child's hand while the wound was stitched.  Connor had feebly protested that he was fine, it was a foul, and 'Did we win, Uncle Wes?'

Remembered Angel's words in the lobby of the hotel, as he and Gunn had fooled around with the tiny hockey sticks.

_'I know it's a bit too early to be thinking about stuff like this, but I can't wait to watch him, you know, grow up. For him to lose his first tooth… learn how to ride a bike…'_

He did not deserve this. He had stolen the man's son, his beloved baby, had robbed him of the chance to see his child grow up. Wesley thought of Holtz, swearing blood vengeance for the murder of his children. Truly, he was no better than Angelus. He reached out and brushed his hand lightly over Connor's hair. The child shifted position and murmured something in his sleep.

'I'm sorry, Angel.' Wesley whispered.

*~*~*~*

'Can I get you anything, sir? A drink, perhaps?'

Wesley smiled politely at the hostess and shook his head.

'No thanks.' 

She eyed the sleeping teenager curled in the window seat.

'Perhaps I could leave a soda…? For when he wakes up?'

'Well, maybe a Pepsi, thanks.' 

She retrieved the requested drink from the refrigerated trolley and handed Wes the can and a plastic cup. He accepted them politely and placed them on the tray beside his book, hoping that she would move onto the next passenger.

'You're off to L.A. on business?' She was looking down at the file between the seats, the briefcase at his feet. 

Wesley did not wish to be rude, but it was really quite imperative that he spend these last few hours studying the Shanshu translations.

'Not exactly. We have family there.'

She gave a bright smile, and lifted a soft fleece blanket from the overhead locker, spreading it over Connor. 

'There you go. Don't want him to catch cold.' She began to push the trolley. 'Now you have a good stay in the city of the angels.'

She moved on to the seat in front. Connor stirred in his sleep, and rubbed the heel of his hand over his eyes. 

'Hey,' Wes said softly, as he gradually returned to full consciousness. 'You thirsty?'

The boy nodded, and Wesley handed him the can of soda. Watched him intently as he poured the drink into the plastic cup, and realized that Connor's hands were shaking slightly.

'Are you alright?'

Connor nodded again, but steadfastly refused to meet his eyes.

'Connor?' His voice was quiet but resolute, the tone he used when he required a verbal answer.

'I – I'm fine. Just a bit tired, is all.' 

The boy was lying, of course. He was a dreadful liar, always had been, displaying all the non verbal signs of dishonesty. He had blushed poppy red, and was rubbing his forefinger over his eyebrow compulsively, still avoiding any eye contact.

'Connor, come on. What's on your mind?'

As if he didn't know. As if they weren't headed into the mouth of hell.

Connor finally raised his eyes to meet Wesley's, and to his sorrow he read there shame and self disgust.

'It's stupid. I shouldn't feel like this, I know, but…'

'Con, it's okay to be afraid.' He reached out and rested his hand on the boy's forearm. Felt the pulse race under his fingertips. 

Connor dropped his head again, and Wesley placed his hand against his cheek. A muscle twitched beneath his palm.

'Connor, you trust me, don't you?'

'Yes.' His voice barely a whisper.

'It will be alright. Your father loves you…' felt his own voice tremble a fraction 'and I won't let anything harm you.'

He stroked his thumb over a cheekbone, felt dampness there, and his heart constricted. He guided the dark head over to his chest, and held him gently, his hand fluttering through the boy's hair.

'We'll be fine, I promise.'

He was a much better liar than Connor.


	8. In Hell's Despair

TITLE:  Things Past

AUTHOR:  Eloise 

RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Much.

NOTES: Chap 8 of 9. Once again, thank you to all you reviewers out there, your kind words make writing even more fun. I really enjoyed writing the Wes/Connor stuff in chap 7, glad you liked it too. Regarding Roger's beard, DoReMi4, I totally agree with you, but I'm following canon Roger (see ep  5.07 Lineage for the evidence!). I love Roy Dotrice's portrayal of R.W-P, but in my mind's eye (and indeed my heart) Wes' Dad will always be played by David Warner. Anyway, on to chapter 8!

Lines of dialogue from Buffy ep. 'Amends'. Chapter Title and quote from 'The Clod and the Pebble – Songs of Experience" by William Blake.

_'Love seeketh not itself to please,_

_Nor for itself hath any care,_

_But for another gives its ease,_

_And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair.'___

**Chapter 8: In Hell's Despair**

She sighed softly and raised her fingers to twist through the delicate links of the necklace, feeling the hum of power from the jewel still thrumming against her heart. It was done now, there was no going back. She smiled involuntarily at that thought; then stood up abruptly. She did not have much time.

As if on cue, the door to the Magic Shop was flung open, and a tall, dark and extremely irate man entered, closely followed by a smaller figure, almost running to keep up. So this was the father, the subject of so many prophecies.

'Don't tell me he's not here! I saw his car parked outside!'

Norman was making futile attempts to pacify the vampire.

'Angel, please. Calm down. This won't do any good…' his voice tailed off as she flashed him a look, a brief imperceptible nod of her head. _Done.___

The souled vampire threw her a suspicious look, seeming inclined to bite first and ask questions later. Halfrek drew herself up haughtily and met his angry gaze boldly, deciding to seize the conversational initiative.

'He's not here, Angel. Norman is telling the truth.'

A sound that was not quite a roar escaped the vampire's lips.

'Who the hell are you, and what do you know about the bastard who _stole _my son?!'

'My name is Halfrek,' she replied, the ice in her voice far more intense than the heat in his. 'And I'm a Justice Demon. Working mainly for children in danger…' She threw that out almost as a challenge, and he rose to it immediately.

'My son is not in danger! The prophecy is a lie – re-written by some incorporeal time-shifting demon.'

Although she was aware of the truth of his words, something about his manner just rubbed her the wrong way.

'Oh, yes, that sounds so very plausible. Time travelling demon, indeed.' Behind Angel, she could see Norman's look of admonishment, and she relented a little.

'There are forces at work here, vampire, things that you do not know, or could even begin to understand.'

He was beside her in an instant, his cold hand suddenly on her arm. She had forgotten how swiftly vampires could move. She forced herself to remain calm.

'I don't want a lecture on the metaphysical nature of the universe,' he hissed in a soft deadly tone. 'I want to know where he took my son. And I'm not keen on waiting.' The threat of harm very clear in his grip upon her upper arm.

'Kindly remove your hand. I will not be threatened in this manner.' 

She hoped she sounded composed and unruffled, hiding the agitation that had flooded her body with adrenaline. To her surprise, Angel complied, unlocking the finger vice, pulling his hand back towards his own body, staring at it as if it were a foreign object. She looked again into the dark eyes, and under the anger she now saw intense aching sorrow. Suddenly realized the depth of a father's grief. She glanced again at Norman, who had come forward, placed his hand carefully upon the vampire's. 

'Your son is safe, Angel. He would never allow any harm to come to the child.' She deliberately softened her tone, and saw a muscle jump in his cheek, desperately trying to control his emotions.

'Please.' The word cost him dear. 'Please, tell me where they've gone… I won't hurt Wesley; I just want my son back!' His voice fractured on the last word, and his whole body convulsed in a silent dry sob.

Norman looked back at her, head raised in query. 'Is it time, Halle?' he spoke softly, his hand still upon Angel's.

She raised her fingers to the pendant once more, and felt a tingle as a new surge of power coursed through the jewel. She nodded.

'It's time.'

*~*~*~*

He remained in the shadows of the alley for several minutes after Angelus and the smaller man departed. The creature looked broken, his broad shoulders hunched down in defeated desolation. The sight of that gave him an extraordinary feeling of pleasure. To see his spirit shattered, the despair rolling off him in almost tangible waves, that was infinitely more satisfying than anything he could have planned. 

He watched as the two made their way to a car, and gave them a few minutes. Was about to return to his own vehicle to follow, when the lights of another car came into view. The dark blue sedan pulled over to the edge of the road and the purr of the engine ceased.

The rear passenger door opened, and two men exited the vehicle. They were dressed dark, not quite guerrilla, but from their body shapes he guessed that they were what was commonly referred to as 'muscle'. After a moment, another man stepped onto the pavement, and the two bodyguards straightened to attention as if they had been suddenly skewered. Holtz wondered exactly who this man was that he could command that level of respect from his subordinates.

'I do not require your presence inside, gentlemen.'

Holtz felt a cold stab of familiarity as he recognized the accent. Perfect Received Pronunciation, Oxford English, the tone crisp and even. He remembered having his own Yorkshire brogue beaten out of him at school by masters with this voice. The other men nodded in deference, whispered quiet affirmation.

The older man stepped into the light emanating from the shop, and turned again to give an order to his employees, his face suddenly illuminated. Holtz drew in a silent, swift, shocked breath. The last time he had seen eyes that colour, they had been full of anguished uncertainty. 

He remembered the distaste he had felt when Sahjhan had revealed the details of Pryce's childhood, how the demon had revelled in his own ingenuity, changing the prophecy to play on the man's weaknesses. Had almost taken pity on him when he had come to him; searching for a way to stop the inevitable. But his desire for vengeance for his own lost children was always going to be much stronger than his sympathy for a childhood lost years ago.

So this was Wyndam-Pryce Senior. Obviously he worked for the Watcher's Council, and this was the team that Sahjhan had alluded to; the one which was on the trail of the vampire's child. Holtz drew back into a doorway, taking extreme care not to be seen by the burly men who lounged against the car, surreptitiously smoking forbidden cigarettes. 

After several minutes, the shop door opened again, and the two dropped the evidence of their crime onto the pavement, hastily grinding the stubs under booted toes. Holtz watched as the older man's hands twitched into fists, then relaxed again, cool and deliberate. He walked over to them, and stood very straight, a calm, almost pensive expression on his face. Then swung his palm hard, striking the first man hard enough to rock him on his feet. The second stood stoically, waiting for the blow which fell a few seconds later.  

'I think I made myself very clear, gentlemen. Perhaps you will follow my orders in future.' There was no hint of anger in the clipped tone, and Holtz almost admired him. He understood the need for complete compliance when dealing with life and death situations. The job had to be done, orders had to be obeyed. 

Then he thought of a pale face, of a palm crucified to a table. A hot jolt of guilt twisted in his gut. He did not want to be this man. A man who would do anything for the cause. He closed his eyes and suddenly there was Caroline before him, holding his beautiful baby son. Sarah throwing her arms about his neck as he returned from another long trip. The image morphed suddenly; her tiny hands cold upon his skin, no rhythm in her chest. 

_'Sleep, my love, and peace attend thee, all through the night._

_Guardian angels, God will lend thee, all through the night…'_

Her little voice pleading, cracking his heart wide open.

_'Papa, no!__ Please, no papa! Papa don't let me go!'_

Her thin delicate frame burning in the early morning sun.

The sedan pulled away from the kerb, and he walked back to his own car, turning the key in the ignition. He followed the other car into the night, gripping the steering wheel so tightly the wounds on his knuckles split open and bled.

*~*~*~*

'Where am I supposed to be going?'

Norman could hear the bitten down anger in the vampire's voice, and wondered if they were doing the right thing. He had been pondering that dilemma all the way from L.A.; Angel's shifts from wronged, heartbroken parent to avenging, and here he really didn't want to say 'angel', were frighteningly sudden and without any obvious catalyst. He was beginning to have doubts about the vampire's mental stability. He kept his eyes on the steering wheel, on the white-knuckled grip around the black leather.

'I told you; Halfrek has arranged it. She'll contact Wesley, give him your assurance that no harm will come to Connor or himself. He'll meet us there.'

He did sound incredibly convincing, even to his own ears, and he saw the shoulders drop a fraction, the tension in the arms easing just a little. Maybe they could do this…

'Turn right here.' He motioned with his hand, and they turned into a narrow road that rose at a steep gradient. Angel shifted down a gear, as the engine strained to carry the heavy car up the hill. Half a mile later, the road began to level out, and they saw the lights of another vehicle up ahead. A sound that might have been a sob, or just as easily a growl, escaped the vampire's lips. They pulled into the clearing and turned the ignition off.

Norman recognized the occupants of the truck, some by sight, others by reputation. He knew one of the three humans, the tall black man, Gunn, he remembered now. He was currently sprawled in the back of the truck, hands and feet bound tight enough to cut off the blood supply to his hands and feet. He was at least conscious, although the fresh blood which coated his temple and cheekbone suggested recent head trauma.

The other two humans were both females, both pale-skinned and fine-boned, one dark and one fiery headed. He guessed that the petite brunette was another member of Angel Investigations, from the way she cuddled into Gunn, her bound wrists slipped over his in a mockery of intimacy.

The other woman sat apart from the others, her red-gold hair hanging over her face. Even through this curtain, he could feel the bruises, variously purple, blue and violet poppy-centred marks. They lent her face a mottled hue, as if she was not completely there, but somehow half-hidden in the shadows of pain.

The two demons in the vehicle were familiar to him, too. He remembered the green-skinned demon from the hotel, his rather fierce appearance belying a sweet and gentle nature. Norman really wished he could say the same for the other demon.

This was, of course, Sahjhan, the actual architect of the whole false prophecy, and he was looking fairly solid for someone supposedly incorporeal. Norman shuddered involuntarily, and followed Angel out of the car.

Sahjhan smiled and lifted his hand in a grotesque parody of camaraderie, and stepped out of the truck.

'Angel. Feel like I should be saying something profound, like 'so we meet again, my old nemesis', but I was never much with the deep thoughts. Cut to the chase kind of guy, that's me.'

Rage was rolling off the vampire in waves; he took a step forward, then froze, staring at the view from the clearing.

'I know this place,' he whispered. 'This is where I…' his lips continued to move, but the words made no sense to Norman. 'Am I a thing worth saving? Am I a righteous man…?'

Sahjhan's smile grew wider. 'Great, I hoped you'd remember. The place where you tried to off yourself. Would've saved me a world of trouble if you'd just toasted then, but no, freak weather conditions saved your undead ass. Godamned snow, don't you just hate it?'

Angel closed his eyes, and gave his head a small shake, as if trying to clear it. Sahjhan grinned. 

'Trying to figure out when you pissed me off, vampire? Sorry to disappoint, but it was never about you. All about the little nipper, you see. Thorn in my frickin' side.'

'You. You were the one who changed the prophecy, made Wesley take Connor.'

Sahjhan began to clap slowly. 'Well, d'uh. Took you long enough. And while we're on the subject, where is Wesley? Thought you'd have found him by now.'

There was a gentle rustle in the bushes next to Norman, and three men emerged into the clearing, two overtly armed, one with a gun, one with a crossbow. The third, older man walked slightly behind the armed men.

'It seems we're not the only ones looking for Wesley.'

The last time Norman had seen that face had been twenty-five years ago, but he would have recognized the voice anywhere. The accent cool and clipped, each syllable pronounced with careful precision. 

Angel swung to face the men, fresh anger in his eyes.

'Who the hell are you?'

'Oh, I was wondering when you guys would get here. Good flight?' Sahjhan waved flippantly.

Wyndam-Pryce Senior pursed his lips together, and fixed them with an icy gaze.

'Angelus, I presume. My son's erstwhile employer.' Distaste evident in his tone. 'And I don't think I've had the misfortune to meet you…?' he gestured towards Sahjhan, who pretended to look hurt.

'Now, Mr Pryce, we're on the same side here. No need to be rude. I'm just interested in averting the apocalypse, same as you.'

'Oh, I sincerely doubt that.' A new voice, one that straightened Angel's spine instantaneously. 

'Captain Holtz, good to see you again. Glad you could make it.' Sahjhan spoke with the easy joviality of a convivial host. 'Party's about ready to start – we're just waiting for the guests of honour…'

They all turned as a small hire car rounded the final corner and pulled into the clearing. Sahjhan's grin became wolfish.

'Ah, and here they are now, right on time.' 

*~*~*~*

Had his heart beat, it would have paused in his chest. Had he breath in his body, it would have caught in his throat. The air was already heavy with his friends' scents, Gunn's laced with the dark sweetness of fresh blood, as disturbingly appetising as Justine's had been.

He lifted his head as the car door opened, and the familiarity of the scent almost overpowered him. Old books, parchment, ink, and that musky spicy sweetness he had smelled in the hallway, as his own blood had dripped upon his baby. One he now recognized as fear. 

The man moved into the muted light of dimmed headlights, and Angel gasped. Wesley had aged at least ten years since he had seen him last night. The tiny laughter lines at the corners of his lips had lengthened and deepened; the dark head was now threaded through with silver. He was still Wesley; the flash of blue behind glasses as intense as ever, but a time-wearied version, as if he had lived another life in the passage of one night.

A second figure joined Wesley in the clearing, smaller than the Englishman, and slight of frame. A boy, perhaps in his mid teens, his body all angles and bones. The scent of the child enveloped him, heartbreakingly familiar, yet somehow alien. The sweet warm milkiness was gone; no longer did he smell baby powder and lavender. But the deep essential core of his scent remained unchanged. His baby, grown past puberty, almost to manhood. It was not possible.

'Angel.' Wesley's voice was quiet, his accent softened by aging. He did not sound particularly afraid. 

'Where is my baby?' he forced the words through tight lips, fighting to keep his demon in check, and not sure he really wanted to.

'Dad,' the boy began, and there was a pain in his chest as he heard uncertainty in his voice, a tiny tremor of fear. Wesley laid his hand gently on Connor's arm, and shook his head.

'You bastard, Pryce! What the hell did you do?'

The justice demon emerged from the car, and fluffed her fingers through her curls.

'He needed more time. So I gave it to him.' 

'Sent him back to the past?' Sahjhan cocked his head to one side, nodding in reluctant admiration. 'Have to say, I totally wasn't expecting that. Kind of makes things a bit more complicated.' 

He threw back his head and let out a wild inhuman shriek, raising both arms wide above his head, face tilted to the dark skies. He began to chant in an archaic language, one that both Wesley and his progenitor obviously recognized, as they both reacted immediately to the incantation.

Wesley grabbed Connor and pulled him bodily towards their vehicle, the boy protesting strongly. He was eternally grateful for the benefit of vampire hearing as he heard the Englishman whisper frantically: 'Not yet, Con. It's not time yet.'

Pryce Senior issued a quiet order to the two operatives who flanked him, and they obeyed immediately, and ran towards Sahjhan, their weapons raised. The sky was split by jagged light, arcing down towards the demon's upturned palms. He was suddenly illuminated, the newly gained power flowing from his fingertips, now directed at the hapless council lackeys. A terrible brilliance enveloped the men, and for a fraction of a second their faces were radiant with horror. And then they were gone.

The aura of extreme power remained around the demon's body, his hands glowing faintly. He made a lazy motion with his finger towards the truck, and the bonds around his friends' bodies vanished. Angel saw Holtz moving towards the vehicle, whispering her name brokenly. Justine raised her head, and stared at him with dumb incomprehension. Then she was jerked into the air, as if attached to invisible puppet strings, and flung with bone-shattering force towards the edge of the precipice. 

Angel wasn't sure why, or even how he managed to catch her hand before she fell. But he was there, suddenly, grasping her traumatized wrist in an unyielding grip. She made a quiet sound of pain, and passed out, as he hauled her bodily back onto firm ground. 

'You – you saved her.' Holtz was staring at him in anguished disbelief, and again he heard words spoken three years before, echoing in his head.

_'Am I a thing worth saving? Am I a righteous man?'_

'Hm, nice save. Just testing.' Sahjhan laughed and raised his finger again, and suddenly Connor was lifted out of Wesley's protective embrace, and trailed towards the demon. Sahjhan reached out and touched the boy's face, caressed it almost tenderly, before running his finger nail down the pale cheek, slicing through soft flesh. A thin thread of blood welled slowly along the scratch.

Angel moved with all the speed his vampiric nature possessed, the paternal instinct to protect his child completely overwhelming any sense of self preservation. He was dimly aware of Wesley's similar reaction, and they reached Connor at the around the same time, but before either of them could strike a blow, Sahjhan flipped them in the air and sent them in opposing directions. Angel landed back at his car, his head striking the front fender smartly enough to send white noise exploding in his brain.

He bent his head for a moment; then looked back at the demon, who had now forced Connor to his knees on the ground before him. Wesley lay a few feet away, clearly dazed by the force of his landing, though not badly hurt. 

Sahjhan ran his finger delicately along the cut on the boy's face, Connor's blood beading on its tip. He looked over at Angel and tutted with mock severity.

Oh, yeah, forgot to mention. In my corporeal state, I'm pretty damned invincible.' 

****


	9. Where Love and Sorrow Meet

TITLE:  Things Past

AUTHOR:  Eloise 

RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Or not.

NOTES: Chap 9 of 9. Thank you all so much for your kind reviews. Here we are at last, the final chapter; hope the wait hasn't been too long. 

Lots of influences in this part – inspiration from the wondrous Joss - 'Becoming', 'Amends' and 'The Gift'. The man should get an Emmy.

Chapter title and quote from 'When I survey the wondrous cross' by Isaac Watts. Epilogue title and quote from Richard II, act ii sc.1. (Shakespeare). Lines quoted from the Prayer of St. Francis.

'_See! from his head, his hands, his feet.;_

_Sorrow and love flow mingled down;_

_Did e'er such love and sorrow meet,_

_Or thorns compose so rich a crown?'_

****

**Chapter 9: Where Love and Sorrow Meet**

Time slowed.

Over by the truck, Lorne and Fred huddled around Gunn, who was pushing ineffectually at their hands, protesting feebly that he was fine, he should help. Holtz had gathered Justine in his arms, and carried her over to his car. Was now holding her tight against the warmth of his body, stroking her tangled hair distractedly.

The justice demon had moved to stand beside Norman, who was watching events unfold with an expression of anguished resignation. Wesley's father, and he still had no idea what the council were doing here, stood ramrod straight, undaunted in the face of his subordinates fiery demise. His lack of emotion chilled Angel to his core.  He had more knowledge than he truly wished on the treatment Wesley had received as a child, but it was still a shock to see the cold ruthlessness of the man.

Wesley himself was now on his knees, his hand pressed to the side of his head, watching Sahjahn with an intensity which was frankly quite unsettling. The demon raised his index finger, and the mercurial bead of Connor's blood trickled to his palm, upraised as if in blessing, then dripped onto the dark earth below. Sahjhan muttered another incantation, this time under his breath, and closed his eyes in satisfaction. 

At first Angel thought the spell must have failed. There was no sound, no movement in the air. Even the wind had dropped. Then, from somewhere below, there was a deep bass rumbling, growing in pitch and volume until it was an unbearably shrill whine. Finally there was an earth-shattering roar, and the fabric of the night sky was rent open, revealing a gaping fissure, a swirling, boiling mass of red orange fire. 

Angel knew that he was looking into the mouth of hell.

'I'm guessing I don't need to explain what we're looking at here.' Sahjhan looked incredibly smug, as he wafted a careless hand towards the hole in the sky. 'Your basic end of the world scenario, brought about by the blood of the vampire's child. The architect of the apocalypse.' At this point he looked over at Wesley's father, and grinned. 'Just as the prophecy foretold.' 

The older Englishman frowned slightly. 'You're aware of that prophecy?'

'Aware of it? Hell, I wrote it! Had so much fun with that one, all those intricate puzzles and subtle hints; had to convince the council that it was the real thing. And it worked.' He winked conspiratorially. 'Don't you just love it when a plan comes together?'

'It was false?' The cold fury in Pryce Senior's voice made Angel wonder if this was actually the first time the man had ever been played.

'See, here's the thing about prophecies. They have a tendency to come true. Even the false ones. It was just a matter of heading back to the past and rewriting it to suit my… needs. I want the boy gone. And for some reason known only to the Powers that Be, I can't do it myself. That's why I brought you into the future.' Sahjhan looked over at Holtz, disgust evident in his curling lip. 'Should have known you weren't up to the job, though. All that nauseating human emotion; all that love and pity. You reek of it.'

He looked again at Wesley's father. 'Knew I could rely on the council. Never ones to let emotion get in the way of doing what must be done. Which is, of course, killing the boy.'

'No!' Angel launched himself towards the demon, only to find himself slammed against a tree, almost impaling himself on a stray broken branch.

'Oops. Got to be more careful, vampire. Wouldn't want you to miss the big finish. Now, as you can see, we've got ourselves an open hellmouth, which is fairly unstable state of affairs. And the only way to close it, and prevent, well, the end of the world, is a blood sacrifice. Three guesses, anyone?'

Angel looked over at his son, who was still kneeling at Sahjhan's feet. But he was not cowed, not afraid; he saw the boy's hands curl into loose fists, his lips moving silently. A few yards away, Wesley knelt in a similar position, whispering softly, his words matching those formed by Connor's lips. As if to give him strength.

And suddenly the boy was upright, and moving. He spun on the balls of his feet, and launched himself at the demon, his foot aimed at the disfigured face. Sahjhan roared as Connor's heel made contact with cartilage, and blood spewed from the demon's nose. He seized the heel and flipped the boy upwards. Connor controlled the force and somersaulted backwards, landing lightly with knees bent; a cat poised to spring.

There was a hot tightness in his throat as Angel watched his son fight. He was perfect; moving with an easy grace and confidence; performing a fluid ballet of dizzying leaps and turns that was breathtaking in its beauty. And he was barely out of breath, as if the world was spinning about him, and he was its axis. And all the while, Wesley watched, his lips moving as if in silent prayer.

And then there was a flash of silver, spinning through the air, and Connor caught the short sword that Wesley threw to him. He raised it above his head and closed his eyes, chanting an incantation.

'That's it, Con, you can do it…' Wesley's whisper carried over to him. 

And the boy twisted the bright blade in his skilled hands as he finished the incantation, then plunged it deep into the demon's chest. Sahjhan stared down at the hilt that now protruded from his body in shocked disbelief.

'Son of a bitch,' he breathed hoarsely, and Angel could hear the labour of blood-corrupted lungs, as Sahjhan fought to draw breath. 

'Funny thing about prophecies.' Wesley was on his feet and moving towards Connor and the fatally wounded demon. He stopped in front of Sahjhan as his hand closed around the hilt of the sword. 'They are inclined to come true, despite our best efforts to the contrary.'  Wesley spoke quietly, without particular malice. 'The child sired by the vampire with a soul will grow to manhood and kill Sahjhan – that's the one, right? And you tried so hard to hide it.'

He tightened his grip on the sword and pulled it back, slowly, an inch at a time. The demon dropped to his knees, a thin trickle of blood rupturing at the corner of his twisted mouth.

'Gotta say, I – I'm impressed.' Sahjhan spat a mouthful of dark blood onto the grass and grimaced. 'I win, though.'

Wesley was casually wiping the sword on a patch of longer grass.

'Oh? How so?'

Sahjhan's eyes flicked to the hellmouth that lay open beyond the edge of the hillside. His breathing was now very laboured, the beat of his heart almost visible through the sucking wound in his chest.

'I'm headed to hell – know that,' he half groaned, a wry smile twisting his lips. 'Looks like I'm gonna have company, unless you make the sacrifice.' He looked over at Connor, who now stood at Wesley's side, still breathless with exertion and adrenaline.Then turned his gaze to Angel. 'You choose, vampire. Save your son, and condemn the world to hell.'

_Then let it go to hell._

He would not do this, would not lose his son again. Angel moved forward, pressed his hand to the demon's flesh, felt the sweet warmth of arterial blood seep through his cold fingers. Managed to suppress the urge to bring his fingers to his lip and taste. He pushed hard, and Sahjhan fell lifeless to the ground, tumbling over the edge of the precipice into the burning rift in the night sky. He was sucked down, his body spinning chaotically, arms and legs now deadweight. And he was gone. 

The hole in the world now appeared to have widened slightly. 

'Uncle Wes?' Connor's voice was tentative, a soft question.

Wesley drew the boy into a brief embrace. 'You did it, Con. I knew you would.' Connor rested his head against the Englishman's shoulder and Angel felt a sudden flash of pure hatred for the man who had taken his place. In all but name, Wesley was indeed Connor's father.

'Angel.' Now those brilliant blue eyes were focused on him, and he read uncertainty there, as if Wesley were unsure of his reaction.

'I won't do it! I won't fulfil your damn prophecy, Pryce! There's another way, there's got to be…'

'I'm afraid there is no alternative.' 

It was surprising how two men could sound so similar, yet so incredibly different. Wesley's father was standing barely ten feet away, his gun levelled at Connor's chest. 

'You must see that it is necessary. Regrettable, but necessary.'

Connor's death regrettable? He would tear the man's still-beating heart from his chest. He snarled in fury, then launched himself at Wesley's father, ready to rip his throat out. Met a solid invisible wall, and recognized the protective enchantment that Wesley whispered.

Slowly became aware that Wesley had stepped away from Connor, allowing his father a clearer shot.

'Ah, Wesley. I see you've finally grasped the concept of sacrifice.' His father sounded almost proud. 

'I understand, Father. There are things that must be done, for the greater good.'

Beside him, Connor sagged visibly, the realization of what was about to happen hitting him hard. 'Uncle Wes, no,' he breathed shakily, backing away from Wesley, eyes wild with fear. Angel tried to move towards his son, but his limbs were heavy, paralyzed by the protection spell Wesley had cast.

'I underestimated you, my boy. Always thought you were too soft for your own good.' There was definite wistful admiration in the man's voice. 

'Gunn! Fred – Lorne! Stop him!' Desperation roughening his tone, Angel pleaded with the huddled figures by the truck. Lorne and Fred began to haul Gunn to his feet. Wesley raised his index finger and they were fixed in place, watching in impotent horror as events unfolded inexorably around them.

'Wesley! Don't do this.' Fred was pleading, a tear frozen halfway between cheek and chin. 'There must be another way…'

'This is the only way.' Wesley sounded numb, detaching himself from the emotion of the situation. 'I spent fifteen years trying to solve the prophecy, and it always comes back to this.'

He looked over at Angel, and he read intense aching sorrow in the Englishman's eyes. 'I'm sorry, Angel.'

'No! You don't apologize to me, you bastard! The minute, the very second this spell wears off, I'm killing you. You are a dead man.'

Wesley nodded. 'I understand.' 

He turned to Connor, who was also immobilized at the edge of the cliff, clearly completely stunned by his uncle's betrayal. 'Connor. You trust me, don't you?' 

Torn between love and terror, Connor's answer was a half sob of anguished confusion. 'I – I don't know.' 

'It will be alright, Con. I promise you.' He smiled then, a sad, knowing smile; and turned to his father. 'It's time.'

'Halfrek, Norman – you must stop this... ' Angel begged, but the two stood back, watching. Norman looked at him, his dark eyes sparkling with heartfelt sympathy.

'It can not be stopped.' The justice demon spoke quietly. 'Wesley is right. The prophecies must be fulfilled.'

'Indeed.' The older Englishman slipped the safety, and aimed the gun at Connor's heart. Then fired.

Time slowed.

Angel watched the bullet leave the barrel, the superheated air about it shimmering as it travelled towards his son. Saw Wesley move, faster then any vampire, shoving Connor fiercely to the ground, to safety. Saw the bullet enter Wesley's body, just below the heart, a neat hole cauterized by the heat of the bullet. Saw the bullet exit his body, leaving a messy gaping hole in the man's back. Saw the blood-coated bullet travel into the hellmouth, the rip in reality abruptly closing as the sacrifice was received. Saw Wesley fall to the ground, the grass around him quickly darkening with his blood.

And the spell was gone. 

Angel was at his side instantly, aware of Connor there also, kneeling in the damp grass. Wesley looked up at Angel, and he swore the man was doing the Eureka smile.

'The father will kill the son…' 

There was a quiet click of a safety catch being applied, and Angel looked up to see Pryce Senior lowering the weapon, his face ashen, all the stiffness gone from him. 'What did you do, boy?' His voice rising on the last word, almost disappearing into a sob.

Halfrek stepped forward, and cleared her throat. 'Perhaps I should explain, Mr Wyndam-Pryce.' Her voice was ice. 'Wesley knew that there were prophecies to be fulfilled here tonight. Only the blood sacrifice of a son killed by a father could close the hellmouth. The prophecy did not specify the name of the father or son.' She glared at him then, the jewel around her neck glowing faintly. 'And of course, the prophecy had to be fulfilled. Regrettable, but necessary.' 

There was a muffled thud, and the older Englishman fell to his knees, the echo of his words breaking him completely, the enormity of his actions finally overwhelming him. Angel almost pitied him.

Beside him, Connor began to sob. 

'Uncle Wes, why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you trust me?' Angel thought his own heart would crack at the desperation in his son's voice. Wesley shifted his arm with difficulty, and managed to grasp Connor's hand with weak fingers. 

'I'm so sorry. Knew – you'd never let me… h-hated lying…'

And Connor was weeping, fiercely, his head buried in the crook of Wesley's neck. Wesley looked at Angel, and he understood; gently lifted his son from the dying man and folded him in his arms. Felt the warmth of tears against his own neck, the shuddering of breath as the boy fought to gain some control.

'Connor.' Wesley's voice was soft now, but his son acknowledged it immediately, wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his hand. 'Always know that I love you.' A pause, and Angel saw fresh tears. 'I couldn't have loved you more if you were my own son.' He reached up and placed his hand on Connor's cheek tenderly, then looked over at Halfrek. 'It's almost time.'

Halfrek was looking over the edge of the precipice, and Angel followed her gaze to the line of the horizon, where the sun would soon appear. 

'Captain Holtz?' Halfrek called over to where Holtz sat, cradling Justine in his arms. He looked dazed. 'This is important.' She sounded gently exasperated.

The man raised his head. 'What?'

'The last prophecy, it depends on you. On your capacity to forgive.' 

_Am I a thing worth saving? Am I a righteous man…?_

'No.'

At first Angel thought it was Holtz who answered. Of course he could not forgive. He had taken the man's family from him. A sin too great to be absolved. And then he realized that it was Wesley who had spoken.

'It's not him. Redemption through forgiveness …' Suddenly his broken voice took on a desperate edge. 'Angel, do you forgive me?' 

_A sin too great to be absolved._ He looked down at the teenager curled in his arms, weeping for the man who had stolen him away.

'Wesley, I – you took my son…' He wanted to forgive, truly he did, but it was just too hard. He dropped his own head, and felt the chill of tears on his cheeks.

Wesley reached over and grasped his hand, and Angel felt the dying heartbeat shudder through his own frame.

'My friend. Please. Forgive me.'

Time stopped.

Above them, the first blood-red rays of dawn were climbing to the edge of the horizon. Angel looked into the beautiful blue eyes of his friend, and saw there love and sorrow. Felt the heart rate quicken in the man's thin wrist, as he clasped his own fingers tightly around Wesley's.

'I forgive you, my friend.'

Wesley gave a small smile, almost shy, and closed his eyes. His heart ceased to beat, just as the sun rose over the horizon, and Angel's heart began.

**Epilogue: The Setting Sun**

_'More are men's' ends mark'd than their lives before_

_The setting sun, and music at the close;  
As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,  
Writ in remembrance more than things long past.'_

It is late afternoon, the warm haze of early summer hanging over the garden. Above, a sky as blue as the ocean, soft billowing clouds float there, the passage of time marked only by their gentle shift, and the almost imperceptible movement of the sun to the west. 

Below, the garden is peaceful, as was intended, the more delicate shrubs and flowers protected by the shade of cypress trees. The soft lazy sunshine trickles through the dappling leaves like liquid light, marking the grass, lengthening shadows on stone. 

Con stands, fists shoved deep into his jeans pockets, head bent, as if in prayer. Dark hair flops over his eyes, his fringe in need of a trim, as usual. He is still small for his now seventeen years, a thin delicate form that has always belied an inner strength. He slips his hands out of his pockets, smoothes them down the worn denim nervously. The bulky leather strap of his watch seems too large for his thin wrist, and he wonders idly if Connor is eating enough.

He closes his eyes briefly, long lashes flickering against cheekbones so high as to seem almost feminine. But his frame is all boy, all elbows and knees; awkward angles and sharp corners. His shoulder blades are visible under the soft blue cotton of his shirt, the sleeves rolled casually to expose his forearms.

Connor shifts, drops to his knees carefully, leaning forward to brush his fingertips over the smooth stone. Tracing the letters there, as if they were Braille, as if he were blind, and needed to touch to comprehend. He closes his eyes again, and his shoulders droop a little, but his eyes remain dry.

Behind him, the older man stands, watching. The setting sun sparks the silver strands in his dark hair, lights fine lines at his eyes, the curve at the edge of his mouth, where time has cut a groove into his cheek. This is the Shanshu, carving itself into newly human flesh, creating lines that owe to time. And the sun casts his shadow across the boy's back. Angel moves forward, kneeling next to him; places his hand tenderly on the boy's shoulder. 

The boy lifts his fingers from the stone, again smoothes his palm along the fabric of his jeans, pausing to pick at a non-existent thread. 

His father waits, now familiar with this ritual, his hand gentle upon the slender shoulder. Neither demanding attention, nor denying it. If Connor needs him, he is there. 

'It's okay, Connor. Take all the time you need.'

And Wesley watches them, as they kneel in the quiet garden before his grave. He loves the verse they picked out, often wonders if it was Angel or Connor who chose it.

They're standing now, Angel drawing his son into a tender embrace, his hand soft upon Connor's back. And Wesley thinks that Connor might be weeping. He looks at the grave stone, and stretches out his hand, forgetting for the moment that he is not really there, that he is in what he guesses is heaven. And the thought makes him laugh, as always. Wesley the angel, and Angel the human. The Powers that Be have an interesting sense of humour.

So he draws his hand back from the stone, contents himself with watching his best friend and beloved child. For he already knows these words.

'_For it is in giving that we receive;_

_It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;_

_And it's in dying that we are born to eternal life.'_


End file.
